


Crash Site Love

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Doubt and trepidation, Eventual Resolution, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse dynamics, Pregnancy in all its non-glory, Unplanned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought about it. John wanted him off the suppressants. This was true; his voice had emotion in it when he asked. This meant something to John. Why? Obviously there were the usual health concerns. Could there be other reasons? John had to have realised what would happen once he went off the suppressants. Though he disliked the idea of heats and certainly had no pleasant memories of them, the possibility that John was interested...well, it was an uncertainty.</p><p>(Sherlock and John navigate the unexpected consequences and mend their relationship while dealing with a new and interesting case that cuts too close to home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How was I to know?

_I am sent to the corners of your mind, where a fire burns and you only see the light. It was out of control. You were wrong, you let it go._

* * *

__

Sometimes, though he tried to stop himself when he did, John Watson found himself wondering about his flatmate's secondary sex. It was a bit of a mystery, because Sherlock acted like the stereotype of an alpha: he had a dominant, prepossessing presence, a bit of a superiority complex, and could be rude at times. At many times. But he smelled like a beta. That is, almost not at all.

John would remind himself that behaviour was not a sure indicator, that he, an alpha, had never had a territorial feeling in his life. Then he would remind himself not to think about Sherlock Holmes.

There were plenty of things not to think about Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, on the other hand, never had to wonder about John's identity. John was an alpha, so he had nothing to hide. Alphas, people said, were better leaders, stronger fighters, courageous, trustworthy, or some other equally stupid presupposition. They were more likely to be hired for a job, among other stereotypical benefits.

All of that rubbish Sherlock couldn’t stand. There were also several things he couldn't stand about John.

For example, why did he have to be so bloody  _perfect?_ Why did he have to be so (relatively) kind and warm? Why did he have to have a smile like that and smell so nice and not just put up with Sherlock but look up to him too? It was completely unfair. 

>*<

John's speculations ended when he came home from work to find his flatmate with his left sleeve rolled up and a needle in his right hand.

He dropped all his things and rushed into the kitchen.

"What the hell" he demanded, furious, "are you doing?"

"Medicine." Responded Sherlock without turning to look at him, intently clearing the air out of the syringe.

“Why don’t I believe you? Hand it over.”

“Come on—“

“No. Give me that right here, right now.”

“What makes you think I’ll do that?”

“Because if you don’t, Sherlock," he said slowly, “I’m going to take it from you.”

“It isn’t what you think.”

“No?” asked John with a dry edge to his voice “It’s not illegal?”

“Well—“

“I can’t believe it.”  Said John, shaking his head. “You were clean for so long and—“

“Don’t be stupid, John.” Sherlock snapped. “It’s not drugs, it’s suppressants.”

John took a deep breath and shook his head again. “That’s not very good either.”

“I need them.”

“Sherlock, suppressants are classified as a harmful substance.”

“Yes, I know, and I need them.”

“You could use reducers like anyone else?”

“Of course not. When faced with a problem, why not eliminate it altogether?”

John frowned in frustration.

“There really is no arguing with you, is there? Exactly how long have you been doing these?”

Sherlock thought about it briefly. “Twenty years.”

“Twenty—what the hell, Sherlock?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Your bloody bone mass, probably, for one, among a host of other issues, you absolute—“ He took a breath and lowered his voice. “Just…please go off suppressants, okay?”

Sherlock thought about it. John wanted him off the suppressants. This was true; his voice had emotion in it when he asked. This meant something to John. Why? Obviously there were the usual health concerns. How inconvenient it would be if he broke, say, an arm during a case. Could there be other reasons? The possibility might exist. John had to have realised what would happen once he went off the suppressants. And John was an alpha. An unmated alpha. Extremely unusual at his age. Though he disliked the idea of heats and certainly had no pleasant memories of them, the possibility that John was interested...well, it was an uncertainty. Perhaps he wasn’t.

People had found him aesthetically attractive in the past, but Sherlock knew that statistically, John preferred beta women. However, the statistics also showed John’s lack of long-term commitment to these women, which was indicative of… something. He needed more data. Or perhaps he just wanted to, er, collect it. And, well, if John was asking.

“I think I will.”

John gave him a funny look.

“Pardon?”

“I said I will.”

“Really?” It couldn’t be this easy.

“Yes, I just said so.” He answered, impatient, depositing the syringe and a small vial in John’s hands. He began to pace around the living room, speaking fast.

“The reasons you present are valid, certainly, and given that nearly 92 percent of the omega population have found ways to cope with heats without suppressants, there’s no real reason I should be unable to do the same.” He tried not to think too much about the fact that John was asking. No, that couldn't mean anything at all.

“Hang on,” said John. “You’re taking omega suppressants?”

“Yes.” said Sherlock. “Yes, obviously. I’m type-O. Why should I be taking any other kind? Does it bother you?”

“No, ah— not at all. It’s just that I thought you were an alpha.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly.

“Things are very seldom what they seem. It is nice to be perceived as alpha. People take you seriously, don’t they?”

“Well…yes.” John was beginning to feel guilty.

“There are always scent blockers.” Sherlock mused to himself. It was only being seen as omega that bothered him. Heats could not be that insufferable, if he remembered correctly. It had been a long time.

>*<

The reason he was deciding to go through with this, Sherlock told himself, was because it would be advantageous to a criminologist to be familiar with the range of human experience.

Nothing to do with his flatmate, really. Those thoughts and feelings had been quarantined when he realised they were unattainable. So of course they had no influence on his thought process or behaviour.

What would John think of it? Did he realise what he was getting into? And most importantly, did he mind what would inevitably happen? Why or why not?

Ah, er, no, he meant: How would the subject's rate of water intake affect the rate of onset? Could these things be waited out easily?

The last one made him a bit uneasy. Every textbook said "intense discomfort" was common. But he, however, was uncommon, so he would assuredly be fine.

Of course.

Did John _want_ this? That was the other big question. No, not a _big_ question. Just...one that didn't go away?

How to eliminate doubts:

Observation.

Hypothesis.

Data.

Analysis.

Conclusion.

With great subtlety, he spent the next few days in slightly closer proximity to his friend to test the waters, approximately one foot closer to his socially defined personal space bubble, and occasionally close enough to brush hands by "accident."

And afterwards, when he had stammered something and dashed away, he would criticise himself for being a sentimental idiot.

But no comment was made by either of the two, and no result came of the proximity experiments. John would neither move towards him nor away. He'd simply stay where he was if he was seated (like the time they watched that numbingly dull film on the couch) and continue his business if he was standing (like the time they brushed their teeth side by side).

There was no answer to this question, and Sherlock grew increasingly restless, although he never showed it. Or perhaps it was the dread—very mild, mind you— of the upcoming heat.

>*<

When it came, it came gradually. He awoke feeling warmer than usual, and blinked several times because the sunlight was coming in too bright. Oh. His pupils. Well, it could be worse. The morning passed without event. John had already left for work by the time he woke up, so he was in the flat alone. There were no new cases pending. The lack of cases would have bothered him any other day, but today he didn’t feel like moving around much. He yawned and made himself some toast and tea. Perhaps today could even be an eating day. In the end, he decided against the toast and put it aside. The thought of food was entirely unappealing.

He forgot about the cooling mug of tea he had left on the table, and instead began to loaf around the flat. He leafed through the newspaper, (most of it was dull or bad reporting, though there were a few highlights that proved to be almost interesting) played a few notes on the violin, (not in the mood for music right now) and put away old case notes (well, put aside. Stacks of paper never really get put away).

A few hours later, he remembered the tea. It had cooled a lot by now. Or he was warm. Anyway it was refreshing. Heats weren't that bad, he thought to himself. It was only idiots who made such a big deal of it. He noticed he was sweating. Not unexpected. Anyway, it was not that much. In a few minutes, he was sweating so profusely that he had to shed a few layers. His muscles began to tingle.

Oh! The realisation hit him. This was what it had been like. Still bearable, though sitting down brought mild discomfort, since his arse had become too sensitive. He tried shifting his position. No good. He tried to think of something else to distract himself, but his thoughts kept turning back to John, no matter how hard he tried to steer them. It was pleasant, but counterproductive.

He decided to get up to walk.

Okay, not mild discomfort, moderate discomfort. He steadied himself with a hand on the table as he stood up, oddly lightheaded. He inhaled. Breaths had become  deeper and the sweating had intensified. Sherlock's face contorted into surprise and then into a grimace. It had just gotten worse. He felt the wetness seeping into the seat of his trousers and shuddered in disgust. Best remove them to prevent them from getting soiled.

He made his way as best he could to the bathroom to clean himself up as well. He loathed being uncomfortable and unclean. It could still be worse, couldn’t it? Damn, he had thought that too soon. The aches had begun. Next would be the increase in fluid excretion. He hesitated, then reached down to where it was warm and dripping and sticking to his skin.

Oh. It was extremely sensitive. No drug had ever produced symptoms anything like this, and it intrigued him. Cautiously, he slid a finger tip through the viscous fluid and into the first loose ring of muscle. The muscles spasmed, clenching and unclenching in rapid succession. A sound that would have embarrassed him escaped his throat.

He realised too late what was happening. The heat would only progress from here. It had gone far enough, and he refused to be reduced to a fevered, whimpering wanton.

He was reluctant to remove his finger, though. It did something good for the hollow ache. He could get the suppressants just a little later…No! Not this! He had to focus. Staggering, he got up and began to search the flat muttering to himself. He stopped twice to pant or steady himself against something. His muscles. His stupid muscles had gone and loosened themselves. He vaguely wondered how flexible he had become. Pushing a torrent of vivid images out of his mind, he stormed into John’s room for the suppressants. No, no, no! Where were they? Did John even have them?

He took a deep breath and stopped when he realised there was something in the air.

He knew this smell. It was warm like cinnamon and tea and knitted sweaters. (Fantastic, now he'd become a poet). It was... comforting. Then he took another deep breath, nostrils widening. He needed more of this smell. It was delectable. It was bloody fantastic.

Where did it originate? He sniffed the air again and moved towards John's bed. It was stronger here. Closer, closer. Oh, yes, the pillows. The pillows smelled heavenly. But this wasn't the source. He kept searching.

Yes, here it was. He snatched a grey undershirt that seemed to be completely saturated with _John_. It filled his lungs and filled his mind with a single name. All rational thought had become foggy, his skin now coated in the sweet stickiness of sweat. The room wasn't warm, it was melting. Shaking? The floor was moving. An earthquake? No, wrong. Tremors. A side effect of a high temperature. He'd become a furnace. He was burning from within. This was more than a heat, and a fever of this strength could cause permanent brain damage. He needed John. Not want, not only the instinct shouting at him, drowning him in want. He needed John's help.

He needed…

Nonono, to get down the stairs and lie down before it got worse. John’s room was making it terrible, because it was terrific.

It took a massive effort of the will to leave, and a massive effort of balance to stumble down the stairs without falling,  but at last he made it to his own room and bed.

It should get better from here if he could just wait it out.

He couldn’t wait it out. Everything was too warm, and he felt like he was dying.

_Is this how it ends, then? Is this how I die?_

_Get help. Find phone._

_Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop_

_Please, Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn_

>*<

Come home. Possibly dying. SH

High fever and feeling strange. SH

Need you. SH

Oh god Sherlock, I'm sorry it's been busy at the clinic I forgot to check my phone. Is everything all right?

Of course it's not. I'll be home in 10 minutes.

Hurry SH

John arrived five minutes later, his footsteps thumping down the hall and up the steps, and banged the door open when he reached it.  

"Sherlock? Sherlock is everything alright?"

John's eyes scanned the flat. He was not in the living room.

"Sherlock? Tell me where you are."

John received a nonverbal reply that was something close to a grunt. It came from Sherlock's room. He rushed to his door, threw it wide open, and nearly fell over from the heady scent.

It took him a few seconds to reorient himself. And there was Sherlock, curled in a ball on his side, scrunching his face tightly.

His dark curls were in a violent state of disarray, and he was mumbling nonsense, overtaken by small tremors. When John took a step forward, the mumbles grew louder, interlaced with a mantra of "John".

So this is what's going on, thought John. Right. He bit his lip and held on to the doorframe to keep control. _Focus, Watson, think like a doctor._

Ok, yes very apparent fever. Unattended all day, by the sheen of sweat on Sherlock's flushed face.

Focus, focus.

What happens when a fever is too hot? Something vaguely sinister, right? Vital functions lost. His fever couldn't be that high, but he was still too hot. Look at him, so hot. So ready.

Focus!

He had to cool him down a bit so that later they could—

Oh god. He was thinking about sex. Why the hell was he thinking about sex?

No, this was not a fever at all. This was heat.

He dimly wondered if Sherlock was aware too. It vaguely occurred to him that he had to do something important.

"Uh, Sherlock. If your fever's been left alone the whole day we need to get those clothes off and get you in a bath and get some fluids into you."

Yeah. Clothes off sounded like the right thing. 

Sherlock looked up with his pupils blown open. John swallowed when he noticed that he wasn't even wearing that many clothes. It was just the wine-coloured dressing gown.

"Sherlock, I'm going to help you--ah, help you..."

"Yes John help please, I need you," Sherlock's voice was raw, deep, and alluring.

Something at the back of John's mind bothered him. He didn't know what it was.

"I'm going to help you stand up, and then you're going to have a bath."

John said this in one breath, allowing no chance for his resolve to once again weaken. 

"C-can't. My legs ache. Damn!" Sherlock regained some of his usual self with the outburst. "Don't just stand there, John, do something!"

"I'm, ah, sure you can walk." Said John, not daring to get too close. In his own head, his voice sounded distant.

"No, no, no. I can't walk. Bloody stupid. Not you." He took a deep shuddering breath. "Can I lean on you?" He asked, wincing at the idea of having to ask to be half-carried.

"Right, yeah." Said John, focusing on not licking his lips.

"If that's easier." Answered Sherlock, taking another deep breath to steady himself.

"Can you, er, put your arms around my shoulders, Sherlock? I'm going to help you walk."

John bent down, allowing Sherlock to attach himself with long arms and... legs? What was this? Fine, he could carry him too. But Sherlock was less graceful than a sloth. John stood slowly, adjusting to his weight. Another wave of tremors overtook Sherlock  and he fell back to the floor with a loud "oomph".

"Bad idea." He grunted out, slowly shifting back onto his side.

“Wait,” John bent down, and lifted Sherlock up once more, this time with one arm under his knees and one around his back. The significance of the hold did not escape him.

“Alright?”

“Fine. Just do something.”

They made it halfway down the hall before John felt something warm and damp on one of his sleeves. Oh god. It was exactly what he thought it was. Sherlock was leaking.

John tried not to think about it.  He tried to put his mind somewhere else. In doing so, he inadvertently let go of the body he was holding in his arms.

The events following that were a haze in John's mind, but a few things that had permanently engraved themselves there.

He remembered: Sherlock looking at him slyly from the ground and pulling him down to join him. A number of enticing things whispered in his ear with hot breath, too close for him to really hear. Sherlock’s smell, how warm his skin was under his clothes.

Off came the clothes.

John ran his mouth over exposed skin to hear the sounds Sherlock would make. Sherlock went wild, clawing at John’s back and pulling him closer. It wasn’t close enough. John's mouth moved up Sherlock’s pale torso, kissing and caressing and nipping, until he reached the seam of his jaw and neck. They were so close that John could feel the vibrations of Sherlock's voice rumbling in his throat.

"Mmph-ah, fantastic."

"Me?"

"You, yes ahhh—mmm, John. John. John. More."

He aligned himself with Sherlock's entrance and slid in. It was warm and slippery and  _so so so good._

"God, Sherlock. Like this? Yeah?"

"Nngh! Yes... Yes! John, please, John."

Sherlock’s eyes flung open like they did when he had a sudden realisation, now with pleasure rather than focus.

"John... John... JOHN."

He made a small high noise and threw his head back as John hit the right spot repeatedly. The noise tipped John over the edge. His knees buckled  and his legs loosened as he lost control.

John felt the blood flow to his knot.

"Gah-Sherlock, I'm going to—"

He let out a shuddering breath as Sherlock clenched his muscles around him.

He remembered shouting something indistinct and burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

>*<

"Wait." He said, grabbing John's arm as he pulled out. "Again."

"Water," said John, the only coherent word he could find.

"Yes. Okay." Managed Sherlock, still breathing heavy breaths. He got up and leaned against the wall, rolling his head languidly to the side, exposing his exquisite neck.

John put down his half-drunk glass of water and never thought of it again. He pressed himself against Sherlock, pinning him against the wall and crushing his mouth in his. Sherlock let out a little gasp.

>*<

Repeat:

John was gone for no more than a minute, and Sherlock was already trying to take the edge off the heat with his own hand. It was quite a sight: Sherlock's face was scrunched up in intense frustration because his fingers were bony, uncomfortable, not helping, and most certainly not John's knot.

John sat down on the side of the bed and pulled the hand away from him.

"Do need a glass of water, Sherlock?"

"N-no! I need you to help me!"

John wanted to help him, but he yawned involuntarily.

"Wrong!" Protested Sherlock. "You can't go to sleep, not now, John."

"Relax, I won't, I'm just-" he yawned again, let go of Sherlock's hand, and looked for the alarm clock on Sherlock's side table. There was no alarm clock. Either he didn't own one or they had knocked it under the bed somehow.

"It doesn't matter what time it is!" Interrupted Sherlock.

"Right, hmm." Agreed John with his eyelids half closed.

Sherlock stuck his hand on John's face  and the scent took effect instantly.

"That's, that's good."

John was wide awake now and began paying affectionate attention to him, nipping at his jawline.

"John... You've got to come... up with more imaginative- ah, phrases..."

"No, my phrases are– ohhh... They're– mmm, I- ah... Fantastic fantastic fantastic, Sherlock, fantastic ohh"

He leaned over onto Sherlock. Or was pulled.

And so forth.

Repeat.

Twenty-four hours had passed.

>*<

John awoke entangled in a net of sheets and Sherlock, who had nestled his face into the crook between John's neck and shoulder.Since they had fallen asleep knotted, Sherlock's legs were still wrapped around John's waist. John breathed in through his nose, watching Sherlock's messy hair move slightly in response. He exhaled contentedly. This was heaven.

And it was, for a few seconds, until conscious thought pummelled him in the stomach.  

Oh god. What had they done? Did Sherlock even want this?

He'd gone off the suppressants. John had told him to. Was that all this was? Hormones?

John was beginning to feel the comedown already. The great feelings of competence and confidence had subsided, and his mind no longer remained focused on one thing. It was spinning everywhere. So was his head. He needed a glass of water.

He stirred.  Sherlock's eyes fluttered open  and he smiled sleepily at John. Then he scanned John's face and frowned.

John looked worried. Why would John be worried? Oh, of course, not worry; regret. It was always regret. Every morning Sherlock had ever woken tangled in another's warm limbs, and these had been few, regret had always awaited him. It was the most predictable human emotion. Next, John would try to move away from him, make  distance. The man shuffled slightly. Ah yes, right, they were still very much entwined. Though sleep had left him with a cocoon of warmth and indifference, Sherlock would need to move aside.

"I'm..err...Christ, I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Of course. Of course he was. Sherlock should have predicted he would be. What a pity, because for the first time in these matters, Sherlock was not sorry.  He had enjoyed it. This had been...this had been a positive development.

Instead of speaking his mind, Sherlock remained silent as John slid out and away from him. He was silent still when John gathered his clothing and left the room, closing the door with a sharp click. Once the shower started, Sherlock rolled onto his back and assessed any bruising on his pale skin. The large mirror across the room revealed several reddening lines and at least two purpling marks near his collar. Excellent, he'd have to cover those as well. With John regretting absolutely everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours, it would be rude to leave his throat exposed, and Sherlock wasn't tempted to do it.

 _Stupid,_ he muttered to himself. _Not John, me. Perhaps John as well_. It had been an utterly moronic idea to go off suppressants only to win himself an awkward situation.

The worst was that John regretted it.

>*<

Tired and sore, John tried not to think about anything as the water rinsed him clean. No. Bugger. This was something that was going to have to be discussed. At some point. Just not now? He couldn't think of a good way to broach the subject. One didn't quite  say 'Hey, Sherlock. You can delete what happened last night if you want to, but I'm going to remember it as long as I live because...

Because what?

Because I...wanted that. With you.

And he did. Maybe, in the past, he wouldn’t have. Now, it was surprisingly...okay. Well, almost. He would have their first time to have been free from the desperation of the hormones, more tender.

Chances were, Sherlock wouldn’t care one way or the other. If anything, he’d probably consider it some sort of experiment. Hypothesis: will John react when provoked with a male omega’s scent? Data collected, conclusion made.

Or what if Sherlock did care, and he didn’t want this to happen? If it had happened _to_ him.

Oh fuck.

And John had _enjoyed_ it. Whatever had happened was caused by hormones. Hormones that John had forced upon him. He was the one who told Sherlock to go off the suppressants. And he'd come home even when he should have suspected it was a heat. This was his fault. And he’d enjoyed it. That was _very_ not good. What the hell did that make him?

John shook his head. Not this line of thought. Not right now.

Vaguely, he wondered what his friend, if that term still applied, could be thinking right now.

After drying off and dressing himself in a comforting jumper John decided the only current remedy would be multiple cups of tea. On his way to the kitchen he passed Sherlock lying in his usual position on the couch, eyes firmly shut. It seemed all was back to normal for his unusual flatmate. Maybe if he was lucky, Sherlock had already deleted all memories of the previous night, John mused. Still, a part of him hoped he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the lyrics of the Elbow song "Fly Boy Blue / Lunette."  
> Chapter title and following quote from the lyrics of Fossil Collective. 
> 
> Comments welcome.


	2. You were wrong, you let it go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, upon waking, Sherlock was hit with an overwhelming feeling of his surroundings not being still.  
> It coincided with a feeling of not wanting to look John in the eyes after what had happened. If there was a way to start something with John, he thought, that had not been the right way. In fact, he had been so stupid about the whole ordeal. And so, he really didn't want to get out of bed in the mornings. That was the nausea. Physiological response to psychological processes. Psychosomatic, he told himself. But that wasn't quite right either.

_ I’ve been rambling for hours, God  stop me if you’ve heard this all before. Are you ready for the conflict? Say the words and I’ll be there, you know.  _

* * *

 

Eyes closed, Sherlock listened to John's familiar steps as he passed.  He didn’t want to open his eyes and have to look John in the face.

Another set of footsteps came from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson, by the jingling of her bracelets. He could always identify her walk.

"Sherlock? There's a call for you on the phone here. It's the inspector from the Yard. He says you two haven't been answering your mobiles?"

Sherlock’s eyes opened, just in time to meet John’s. They exchanged a look, then turned away, faces burning.

"I'll be right down, Mrs. Hudson." Called Sherlock. "Don't come upstairs."

"All right, dear. Do hurry though."

Not staying for more uncomfortable glances, Sherlock stood, and without so much as acknowledging his flatmate, glided out door and down the stairs. John shook his head and commenced his tea preparations.

>*<

Of course Sherlock threw on his coat and spun out of the flat. Of course he hailed his own cab and didn't wait for John to follow. John briefly wondered whether the case was interesting or if Sherlock just wanted to get out of 221B.

He also wondered if he should follow, and then decided Sherlock could get into all sorts of trouble and almost always required an assistant. There was also the danger of Anderson's decapitation.

"Mrs H?" John stepped out of the kitchen.

"Oh, I thought you'd left, John."

"Yeah, about that. Did the Yard say what they needed Sherlock for?"

"Oh, you know, dear. The usual. Crime."

John was going to say something about her unhelpful vagueness, but stopped. She was eyeing him strangely.

"Right, thanks." John turned back around, but not before Mrs Hudson could ask,

"Is everything all right? It's not like him to leave you behind. Well, he used to, but he knows better now."

John sighed. "I think I've upset him. I tried to apologise but he isn't having it." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. It wasn’t quite true. He'd apologised, but he hadn't tried to remedy the situation. He'd hoped Sherlock had sorted it all out on his own and he wouldn't have to interfere. He usually didn't have to interfere. And when he had, in the past, Sherlock had always pushed him away. But this was new, and so far, not interfering hadn’t done any good.

"You saying sorry to him? It's not usually that way around, is it?"

John let out a pained laugh. "No, you're right, usually it's not." _But this isn't us. This isn't how we are, and it's my fault._

Mrs Hudson tried a smile. That didn't do any good either.

"Well, I'm sure you'll both sort it all out. Just give him time."

John hoped that was true. Then, acting against all his instincts, he decided to follow Sherlock.

>*<

He spent the entire cab ride rethinking his decision, still feeling terribly unsure. Interfering now, but at what cost? Only, in John’s mind, friends took care of friends. Especially when the friendship appeared to stand on shaky ground. This was what they normally did, wasn’t it? Go on cases? Perhaps the normal order of things could be restored by doing the things they normally did.  Avoiding each other would only call attention to the gaping rift they were skirting around.

With that in mind, he stepped out, paid his cab, and met Lestrade at the door.

"Body's inside. It's a nasty one."

"Oh my—"

The body was indeed gruesome. Two days into decay, and had been cut--no, hacked-- open. The stench, overpowering and the sight, morally revolting. As Sherlock turned aside from the corpse to bend over and take deep breaths to keep himself from retching, he caught John's eye.

Right away, as if stung, Sherlock's unreadable gaze flew back down to the dead man, and he pretended John wasn’t there at all. Silence reigned. Any minute now, John expected a rambling deduction, a stream of questions, numerous complains about contamination. None occurred. When Sherlock did speak, it was sharply, his voice dripping with irritation.

"Stop breathing."

It was like an unexpected blow to the diaphragm, even now, and he was at a loss for an answer to _that_.

"I can't just--"

"It's distracting. One Anderson will suffice."

"Hey! That's bloody rude, you know. I came to help you."

"Ah, yes. Well, I didn't ask."

"Speaking of which," Sherlock continued, "Anderson! The cuts seem to be with a dissection knife. We're looking for a long, sharp blade. Has your team found anything like that?"

John turned away and cursed before he caught the answer. Of all the things Sherlock could do, 'work with Anderson just to spite John' had never occurred to him as a possibility.

"Hey. You okay, mate?" Asked Lestrade.

"Fine. Just fine." John huffed out in annoyance. Sherlock didn't want him here, but Sherlock's ever-changing moods hadn’t stopped him before. If Sherlock was relatively safe, he could leave. If there was any amount of danger, the man could just deal with John's presence. He'd acclimated to Anderson for fuck's sake.  

"What's gotten into those two?" He heard Sally Donovan mutter behind him as he left.

>*<

Sherlock was like that for the next few weeks. Moody, sullen, unpredictable. Well, more so than usual. He would call him out on anything and everything. Or even worse, he wouldn't speak at all.

And then there was the incident with the refrigerator. One day, John opened it to find it empty. Completely empty. No food, no pieces of scientific endeavours. The latter was what struck John as bizarre.

"Um, Sherlock? What happened to the six livers with cirrhosis?"

John received only a noncommittal noise in response.

"No, really, Sherlock. Tell me what's going on."

"They were putting me off." He muttered, not even turning around.

"And the um, food?"

"I binned what had spoiled."

"And the rest?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What do people usually do with food, John?"

John stood baffled for a moment. There was no way. Sherlock must be sick, or dying. There was plenty of good food in the fridge.

"You ate it?" He couldn't help but exclaim. "Where is Sherlock Holmes and what have you done with him?"

"Yes, I ate it, you absolute—" he let out a huff. "Get out. Please."

"Listen," said John, running a hand through his own hair. "If this is about what happened a couple weeks ago, I'm sorry. Look, I really am. We can delete that if you want to. Please. We can make things the way they were before, right?"

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh and turned into his room, shutting the door.

>*<

Sometimes, upon waking, Sherlock was hit with an overwhelming feeling that his surroundings somehow weren't staying still. The ground was moving, even though it was in the same place. It had started happening as of last week.

It coincided with a feeling of not wanting to look John in the eyes after what had happened, because... It was quite uncomfortable. If there was a way to start something new with John, he thought,  that had not been the right way.  In fact, he had been so _stupid_ about the whole ordeal. And so, he really didn't want to get out of bed in the mornings. That was the nausea. Physiological response to psychological processes. Psychosomatic, he told himself. But that wasn't quite right either. It was still there when he wasn't feeling embarrassment or guilt or any permutation of shame.

Well, conclusions would have to await further information.

>*<

Once again, John had to wait for the bathroom.

Inside, Sherlock was taking his time trying to hide the nausea. Fortunately or unfortunately, John's powers of observation were not dim enough to be fooled.

"Sherlock, I know you're sick. It's the second time this week you're vomiting.--( _Fourth, actually, and it's only Wednesday so far, to say nothing of last week. Thanks for noticing_ ) --I don't think you should go down to the Yard today. You need to rest and get medication."

"I'm perfectly fine and I'd _appreciate_ it if you didn't tell me where to go." Called Sherlock from the other side of the door.

"Please, I'm only trying to help."

For a few seconds, Sherlock found that strangely comforting until his stomach expressed its urge to empty itself one more time.

"All right, Sherlock, this is ridiculous. You can't just expect me to sit here and watch you wear yourself to bits. If you're not going to take proper care of yourself, you know what? Puke somewhere else because I really need to pee."

Sherlock wiped his mouth on his wrist and flung the bathroom door open, storming out with typical dramatic flair. John was waiting there, his face all scrunched up in worry and frustration, just like it had been for most of this week. Fortunately for Sherlock, John had to piss badly. This would give him three minutes to escape. If he wanted to make it out of the flat, he would have to do so while John was in the bathroom. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John also knew that the thought would have occurred to him.

Sherlock cleaned himself up in his room and arranged his clothing. While he could still hear John in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to make a run for the door, only to find John standing in front of it with his arms crossed, looking at him head on.

Sherlock stood there for a while, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, and turned his head to look at the bathroom.

"Yes," said John sternly. "I left the sink running. Didn't think it would trick you, but you're not up to your usual lately. Tell me what's going on."

"For God's sake, John, just let me get to work."

"Something’s up."

"I. Am. Fine."

“I don’t think so, Sherlock." He said, giving his head a small shake. "I called and told Lestrade you were sick. You’re not going."

"You have no right to do that!" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, I do, I'm your friend and friends take care of each other!"

Sherlock was about to let loose a string of scalding remarks when another wave of nausea hit. He rushed to the kitchen sink, making it just in time to retch violently. His mind provided 'bile' as an answer to the greenish-yellow liquid now oozing down the drain. His stomach was empty.

“Sherlock?" called John, rushing after him into the kitchen.

Sherlock was clinging on to the edge of the sink, knuckles white, and wobbling as if he were on a boat. Hell, he felt like he was on a boat. Without warning, John put both arms around him to steady him. Sherlock swayed a bit, then relaxed in John's grip.

"That's right. I've got you. You're all right. I've got you. Here, let's sit down. Hold on. I'm going to try to help you get to the couch. Relax. I've got you."

John walked him slowly across the carpet, Sherlock's clammy grip on his arm almost painful.

"Alright, I'm going to help you lay down here." John stepped to the edge of the couch, beginning to gently shift Sherlock. The fingers on his arm were still holding tightly. He tried to loosen them, but soon gave up. Even when sick, Sherlock had an iron grip. Working around their tangled arms, he guided them to sit side-by-side on the couch.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then gave in. The couch didn't sound so bad. Actually, with the amount of dizziness he was feeling, it sounded better than getting in a cab and going to wherever the Yard needed him. And John was with him on the couch. John. The realisation that John was hugging him made everything else less important. This didn't have to be over soon, preferably not at all. Unfortunately, John decided that he must be cold and thus needed a blanket. John would have to get up and leave to retrieve a blanket.

"I'll only be a minute. Try and lay down, it'll help."

Sherlock only held on tighter. No. John was not going anywhere.

"I do have to get up, you know. I'm just getting you a blanket so you can rest here."

"I'm not COLD, John."

"But you will get cold if you lie still. That's what happens when you stay still for a while."

"I'm not going to lie here for 'a while', and as much as I do appreciate your lesson, I already know how the human body works."

"Right. I'm just going to ignore your sarcasm and you are going to lie down, okay? I'm going to get you a glass of something to drink, since you've spent the morning losing fluids."

"I AM NOT _SICK_ , JOHN!"

"Oh no? Then how'd you explain all the times you've thrown up?  If you had a mirror, you'd see how pale you are. well, more than usual. You've had a drastic change in appetite, and you've been in a terrible mood this entire week! Look, I think you’re being a little ridiculous."

" _You're_ ridiculous. I'm not sick. I'm... suffering from symptoms which you cannot be sure have any direct correlation. I could have food poisoning, for all you know."

"If you have food poisoning, you're still sick."

"Well I'm not sick. I'm, I just- I'm-"

"What? What are you, Sherlock? Right now I'd say you're a stubborn git who's denying that he could ever be ill. Sorry to say, but you're just like the rest of us. Now, are you going to lie down and let me get a blanket, or am I leaving you here to wallow in whatever non-sickness you're suffering from?"

John waited a moment. Sherlock only winced at the outburst, making no move to lay down or release John from his grip. His stomach was still rolling and twisting, but he was almost sure John's presence alone was helping to calm it. If John left, he'd once again find himself pressed against the porcelain bowl, coughing and heaving.

"Fine," continued John. "Suit yourself." He got up to leave, but felt a tug at his jumper.

"I'm...sorry." Managed Sherlock, sounding unlike himself. "Stay with me?"

Seeing Sherlock's eyes like that, wide open and almost pleading, John felt a bit guilty for having shouted at him. He sighed.

"All right. I'll sit with you a while on the couch."

Sherlock lay on his side and rested his head on John's legs.

When John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep he began to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The curls were incredibly soft and he felt himself slipping into a sort of calm happiness. A shiver from Sherlock brought him back. He jerked his hand away.

"See? You're cold."

"Am not." Sherlock's petulant tone was muffled by John's trousers, making him sound even more childish. The accompanying shiver only served to weakened his argument. John got up to stretch his back and to go to the kitchen.

"No." Protested Sherlock.

"Sherlock, it's only for a minute." This seemed to send Sherlock into a state of distress. He really was acting strange today, strange enough to make anyone concerned. Especially John.

“No. Stay.”  

And, for all the things the man had ever asked him to do, this was small and simple in comparison. So he listened, and he stayed, and Sherlock quieted, nestling into John’s warm jumper, breathing slowly and evenly until he fell asleep.

>*<

The non-sickness became a part of their daily routine. As much as Sherlock's reticence bothered John, he didn't press the subject. But he did start to wonder. With such a duration, it couldn't be simple food poisoning. Gut parasites? Hopefully not, but not impossible.

Or could it be—?  No, no, of course not.

>*<

_I’m not. I can’t be._

_I don’t think I’m just sick, but…_

_Something feels slightly off._

_It’s probably nothing._

_Why am I warm and hungry? I never feel warm and hungry._

_Fine, stupid body, I’ll eat. But I won’t give up the coat. I need it._

_I think…_

_Well, it could be…_

_No._

_No?_

_No._

_I’d better give myself a checkup, find out for sure. Not knowing is worse._

_I’d have to give myself a check-up anyway if I were…_

_If I am…_

_There are several ways to find out, and I’d rather find out this way._

>*<

They barely spoke for weeks afterwards. John accompanied Sherlock on a few cases, but only on days it seemed Sherlock wasn’t about to launch sharp glares or cruel words. John tried to keep an eye on his flatmate, who had been acting stranger and stranger as the weeks passed. But if his gaze lingered only a moment too long, Sherlock would be up and away to either his room or out the door.

"I'm going down to Bart's, John." He announced one day.

"Er, right." Said John. Sherlock rarely announced where he was storming off to these days. "Should I go with you?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then made his face go blank. John didn't know what to make of it.

"No...I – I think not."

He got halfway out the door before turning his head to face John. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he promptly closed it before any sound could escape.  

The expression on his face confused John. It was not anger or annoyance; it hadn't been this whole time. It was trepidation.

>*<

It wasn’t unusual to see Sherlock around at the hospital. Yet it was unusual to see him weighing himself on the scale, frowning, and scribbling something down in his notebook. He was taking his own blood pressure when he finally noticed someone was watching.

"Ah." He said. "Molly. I have some blood and urine tests I need you to run." He held up two small plastic containers.

"Oh, er, sure. Is it-is it for a case?"

He cleared his throat.

"Right, well, I'll be right back."

There was nothing suspicious in the blood, though the iron levels were low. The urine test showed normal sugar and protein levels, and no trace of toxins. But one thing surprised her.

"Er, Sherlock," she asked as she returned with the test results neatly printed. "Where’d you get a pregnant omega's urine?"

So, pregnant. Obviously. That settled it.

No it didn't. This was serious.

He had to sit down.

He remained standing.

Pregnant; having a child or young developing in the uterus. What it meant was clear to him. He'd seen many pregnant omegas, investigated their murders, become familiar with their motives. Each one different but with one remaining similarity. They were growing a child inside them. The meaning was familiar, but the experience was not.

He was expecting.

And yet, he thought, how ironically unexpected.

He looked her in the eye and took the smallest of breaths and she realised. She did not say 'oh my god' or anything of the like. Instead, she kept her gaze and stance steady and said, very professionally, very quietly,

"Your iron levels are low."

He sighed quietly, deeply.  

"Spinach, legumes, and citrus" she said.

"What?" Asked Sherlock.

"For folic acid. You need to watch your iron levels if you're having a baby."

"I never said that." He muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Being pregnant is different from having a baby."

"Oh, I– right, I wasn’t assuming. Imprecise use of language. Sorry."

"I am, though." He added softly.

"You...are...?"

"Having a baby."

"Congratulations. That's... it's admirable." Sherlock answered with a noncommittal hum, eyes already back to his notes.

"Sherlock, if you need anything, have any questions, need me to run any tests, just, ah, just know I'm– I can help, okay?"

"Yes, thank you. If you don't mind I'll finish up here." He was dismissing her, but this was less harsh than usual. To Molly, it looked like he simply didn't want to discuss the topic any longer.

" 'Course, yeah. I'll be just down the hall." When she'd made it halfway through the threshold she turned back around, speaking softly.

"You'll make a great parent." It felt important that she said this, that it was something Sherlock might need to hear. And, although his eyes didn't leave his notes, she was almost sure she saw a hint of something tugging at the corners of his mouth.

>*<

John overheard an angry conversation coming up the stairs. It was Sherlock's voice by itself, so it had to be on the phone. He only caught snatches of it.

"—none of your fucking business—"

He sounded absolutely furious to John, who couldn’t recall ever hearing him swear.

"—you have no right to interf– No, you listen to me. It's my prerogative to decide whether I want to tell you or not, and if you say one more thing about the family name, I swear, Mycroft, I will break your ribca—"

Sherlock and John's eyes met. Sherlock clicked the phone off and they both started laughing.

It wasn't until after he was fighting to regain his breath that John realised he had no idea what they were laughing about. Instead of asking Sherlock and risk ruining the good mood they were now both in, he filed it away and comfortably assumed he was just going along with what Sherlock did per usual. It was normal for them. If Sherlock ran, John was right at his heels, if Sherlock laughed (and how rare that had become) John couldn't resist joining in.

This, _this_ , was how they were. It seemed their friendship had formed so quickly John had never known what it could be like to be starved of it.

Who he'd been living with the past weeks? That was a flatmate, not the friend he knew. At least they hadn’t behaved like friends, and things certainly hadn’t been easy between them. And now, having gone weeks without a shared laugh or smile, John realised just how much he had missed this.

He had been sure that they’d been pushed too far apart.

He had been sure life with Sherlock could not possibly get any stranger.

He was wrong.

Their friendship was more important than anything else, and in this moment it had returned. But for how long?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more angst and pregnancy. And, as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)


	3. Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things were normal.  
> Things weren't normal.  
> John allowed himself to think about it. Oh God.

_And they taught us to lie, taught us how to survive. All we are is what we were told._

* * *

 

John had left for work and Sherlock remained in the flat by himself. It was the afternoon, and he felt much steadier on his feet than on the days before. He was beginning to feel a bit tired of the flat's confinement. Well, more than a bit tired. 'Extremely bored' described the situation more accurately. An outdoors walk would do nicely. Perhaps he could even stop by the bookseller's and pick up some new issues of chemical and forensic journals to keep himself busy. But when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he met with the last person whom he wanted to see.

"Just where do you think you're going, brother dear?"

"Mycroft. You're a terrible sight for an upset stomach. Don't you even say hello anymore? Just break into houses now?"

"Don't be silly, your landlady let me in."

"Yes, well, I'll have to have a word with her about that, won't I? In the meantime, please step aside."

Mycroft, of course, did no such thing.

"From what I've gathered, you should be on doctor's orders not to leave 221B. And to be honest, I'd say that's for the best, considering your condition."

"Sod my condition! Since when are you my doctor?"

"Hm, yes, your doctor. He doesn't know much about your condition either, does he?"

Sherlock raised one arm to shove Mycroft, but Mycroft caught his wrist as it came toward him.

"Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. I can't get in a fight with you right now. Now, let's head upstairs where it's warmer. Unless you'd rather wait here for John to return."

"You can't keep me here." Sherlock replied, voice dangerously low.

"Perhaps I can't, but John could. I'm sure he would agree with me. That is, if he were fully informed of the situation. Which, much lamentably, he is not." Said Mycroft, minding his watch chain with feigned indifference.

"You won't tell him."

"Won't I?"

"No, you won't." But Sherlock wasn't entirely sure, and Mycroft could hear it in his voice.

"Let's not drag this out any longer than necessary. I will if I must. John has the right to know, and he'll be able to find out for himself whether you tell him or not. Now onto more important matters. Matters that require the confidentiality of a closed door. If you will?" He motioned towards the staircase, maintaining even-levelled disinterest. Sherlock huffed and climbed the stairs. Being subjected to this level of manipulation was completely undignified. Inside, Mycroft had taken a seat on John's chair. No, that could not be allowed.

"Move." He commanded.

To Mycroft's great credit, he did, but not without a smug smile. Sherlock could tell what he was thinking. Mycroft probably thought he was acting like an omega by forbidding him to sit in a chair that smelled like John. Regardless, he was an omega, and a pregnant one at that, and Mycroft's stench was now going to be filling the room. Even more unfortunate, his brother moved to sit in his chair, leaving him to sit in John's. That was Mycroft's way. He could stink up a room with condescension, and apparently, now, with the mere smell of his presence.

Sherlock sat down in John's chair to fight Mycroft's scent, which was now much too disagreeable.

"For your own interest, you had better make this quick."

"I could not agree with you more."

"I presume you are here to discuss my pregnancy."

"Among other things, yes."

"Well, go ahead. It's not as if I'll be going anywhere." He spat that last part out bitterly. He resented being caged. Meanwhile, it seemed Mycroft was enjoying it just a bit too much. The silence stretched as his brother pretended to gather his thoughts.

"Get on with it." Sherlock snapped, quickly growing impatient. After a moment, Mycroft spoke.

"First, there are the obvious health issues."

"I have been giving myself regular health checks and I have been eating the appropriate things in appropriate quantities."

"Smoking?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"I never said you were."

"Then you are either suggesting I'm selfish or accusing me of trying to poison my own offspring!"

"Calm down, Sherlock."

"Yes. Perhaps I could do that if you stopped aggravating me. What else do you have to say? You have..." Sherlock looked at his watch. "Fifteen more minutes before I push you down the stairs."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"No, you're right, Mycroft, I shouldn't do that. I shouldn't be handling heavy objects, is that correct? So what else are you here to do besides make an enormous nuisance of yourself?" He asked, making sure to stress ‘enormous’.

"There's no need for rudeness, Sherlock. Have we become so childish that I, as your brother, cannot be concerned? This is your first pregnancy. You’ve no experience or knowledge in the matter."

"And you do? No Mycroft, this isn't concern, this is manipulation. Stop meddling in affairs that have nothing to do with you."

"Nothing to do with me? Sherlock, family is family."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Speaking of which," continued Mycroft, "there are certain predispositions in our family of which you are already aware and of which I don't need to warn you."

"Not this again, Mycroft. If you dare tell me to stay in bed—"

"I'm not telling you to stay anywhere, brother dear. I'm just reminding you of mummy and her mother before her. Eight lost all together. I wouldn't run about or exert myself if I were you. "

"Get out." He growled.

"Oh, of course, please do forgive me for suggesting that bad things don't only happen to other people."

"Out!"

"Genetics, Sherlock. I'm merely telling you to be careful."

"Now! Piss off!"

John opened the door of 221B just as Mycroft stood to leave. He held it open and closed it shut after him. Mycroft had looked strangely concerned. He turned to Sherlock and saw why. In his chair was a man with wild eyes, teeth bared, and breath quick and uneven. He looked ready to fight anyone who stepped close, but when John drew near, he seemed to relax slightly instead.

"Sorry, but what the _hell_ was that about?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. He sniffed the air and added, "he's still here."

John looked around. He opened the door and looked down the stairs. Mycroft had left. John smelled the air of the flat. Ah, Mycroft wasn't here, but his stench was.

"He's gone now," said John carefully.

Sherlock scanned the room warily.

"I can smell him."

"Yeah, so can I, actually." John furrowed his brow. Mycroft had not smelled particularly bad before. Odd.

Even stranger, the smell had put Sherlock in a state of distress, and he was beginning to feel agitated himself.

"Come on, let's get out here."

Sherlock followed John down the hallway, beginning to wonder where they were going. The scent was less noticeable, but still present.

John opened the door to his room.

Sherlock followed him inside and inhaled deeply. The smell was warm and comforting. He began to relax and come back to himself with each breath. John did not realise what he had done until Sherlock flopped down contentedly on his bed. Oh god. Sherlock was in his room. Sherlock was in his room, arms and legs splayed out, face planted in his pillow, breathing in his scent and letting out soft sighs. Why was Sherlock in his room? Why was Sherlock making those noises? No, this was not good.

"This is a bit–er...are you comfortable?"

"Ohh, very." Sherlock answered in a low purr.

Oh hell, thought John. They couldn’t both be in here. Their friendship was just starting to go back to how it had been and if anything happened...

“Sherlock?” Could he ask him to leave?

"What?" Snapped Sherlock. He’d already begun to wrap himself in the sheets and blankets. Sherlock Holmes was clearly not leaving anytime soon.

"Nothing," John replied hastily.  "Do you, ah, need anything?”

Sherlock shook his head, and then tipped it back to relish the room.

John exhaled the breath he had been holding and turned to go downstairs to read and give Sherlock some privacy. He made it two steps before Sherlock spoke.

"No."

"What?"

Sherlock huffed.

"You heard what I said."

“Sherlock, I’ll just be downstairs, all right? If I don’t open some windows, it'll be this bad all week."

Sherlock only nodded and closed his eyes.

>*<

In John’s bed, surrounded by his things, Sherlock was unbelievably comfortable, and felt safe. He briefly considered falling asleep here. Of course, his active brain could never be quiet for any longer than a minute. No, he couldn’t stay here. That would be forcing John out of his own bed, and it wasn’t like John would settle in next to him.

Sure, they lived together and spent time together, but they weren’t a couple, not even with Sherlock’s pregnancy. The reality of it was being to sink in. According to others, he could barely take care of himself, and now there was another person growing inside him?

He needed to tell John, if only for the child’s sake. But how would John react? Sherlock imagined John would take responsibility, because it was the honourable thing to do, but did John even want children? Did John even want what had happened with the heat? The thought still bothered him. He felt guilty, as if he had tricked him into it.

And now… was he trapping him? No, no, John was an adult. He didn't have to do anything. He didn't even have to stay. Somehow, the thought was not consoling.

>*<

When Sherlock finally recovered himself, he stood up and decided to return to the sitting room. He _had_ been acting unusually and John had noticed. He had already decided that some sort of explanation was in order, but hadn’t finished formulating it by the time he had begun to descend the stairs.

_Givens:_

_1\. It is unusual for me to react this way._

_2\. John doesn’t know the cause. i.e., my current situation_

_3\. Should I tell him?_

_That’s not a given, you idiot. Givens are never in the form of questions._

_Reasons for and against telling John:_

_No, no, no, that’s stupid. He’ll have to know eventually._

By this time, he had reached the doorway of the sitting room. Thankfully, the foul air had dissipated.

_Get it over with._

He took a breath and--

“Are you feeling any better? I don’t think I've ever seen you react like that.”

“I didn’t ‘react’ to anything.”

“No, I think you did, a little. Is, um...Is everything all right?”

“The thing is, John…” his heart beat faster.

“Yes?”

_Tell him, tell him, tell him._

“The Westermarck effect,” he said hurriedly.

_Wrong!_

“What?” This wasn’t an answer he'd expected.

“The Westermarck effect, John, really. They should have taught that in medical school. It evolved in order to prevent individuals from finding their siblings appealing.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right” said John, still catching on. “I think I do remember that, actually. Prevents inbreeding to increase survival and all that. Makes people’s siblings smell off to them.”

“Um, exactly. That is correct.” _And you didn’t tell him. Fantastic. Just, fantastic._

“Though I don’t remember Harry ever smelling as bad as Mycroft. Shouldn’t he only be smelling like a dump to you?”

_It must be related to the pregnancy. Somehow, your body knows and is reacting to the threat of another alpha._

“Yes, well, Mycroft is just a malodorous individual.”

John smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Sherlock mirrored the smile but felt no real mirth. He couldn't make himself tell him. While he trusted John, and John knew more about him than anyone else, this wasn't a brilliant deduction or crime scene analysis. He had no idea of what the parameters of the possible outcomes would be, besides wishful thinking. John's opinion and indecipherable emotions worried him. He couldn't think about that logically. It brought clouds to his mind. It would be best to hide this for as long as possible.

>*<

Things were normal. At least they seemed so to John. The residual unspoken awkwardness of the heat had by this time dissipated from between them. Sherlock, for the most part, had returned to his regular self. The mysterious sickness didn't rear its ugly head quite as often.

And Sherlock was always Sherlock. There he'd be, perfectly groomed as ever in the mornings, already awake downstairs waiting for John to make breakfast. So what if he'd become an early riser? Maybe that was slightly different, but not bad. Things were normal. Sherlock was even eating and sleeping like a normal person, which was new, but things remained the same as they'd used to be, for the most part.

When his mind was occupied, he was happy. He'd gone back to solving cases, though a great many by email. And when John was home from work, he would watch and admire. He did notice, however, that sometimes Sherlock would look a bit absent, like something far away was troubling him. At those moments, John wanted to reach out and touch him to bring him back, maybe place a hand on his shoulder or tuck a stray curl behind his ear, but he held himself in check. Was that allowed? No, best not risk it. Perhaps Sherlock would not appreciate tender feelings.

It wasn't so much of problem, because there were other times when he would have liked to snap the man back into reality by shaking him.

A fine example was when, for the fourth time that morning, Sherlock's mobile was ringing.

"Sherlock, I swear if you don't answer your phone I'm going to toss it out the window, and I don't care where it lands."

"Fine, fine." He got up, took a few uneasy steps, looked at John, and sat back down.

"Give it to me?" He asked.

John walked over to the table and tossed the phone to Sherlock.

Almost by instinct, he caught it with one hand and drew it to his ear.

“Lestrade, you’d better have something interesting..."

John could just barely hear the detective inspector's voice on the other side of the call. Sherlock didn't look pleased with whatever Lestrade was describing.

"That's a five at most. I don't leave the flat for fives...No, I'm not sick anymore... What would it matter anyway? ...Fine, I'll come. Ten minutes."

"A case?" John questioned, already knowing the answer. Even if he hadn't recognised Greg's voice, his Sherlock rarely received calls about anything else.

"Yes."

"And are you going?"

Sherlock gave him a look of utter disbelief.

"Of course."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You sure?"

No, he wasn't. He had spent much of the morning sitting very still in his chair so as not to get dizzy. But mind over matter, mind over matter.

"I am certain."

"I'll go with you, then." Answered John, lifting himself out of his chair.

 _Yes!_ "Oh, if... you'd like to. I don't mind, but there's, ah, really no need."

" 'Course there is. You're green."

There it was. Pity, not companionship. It was painful, having what he wanted but not for the reason he wanted.

"If you must." He answered, sounding as indifferent as he could.

Still, emotion forced its way through his carefully chosen words.  

>*<

"The thing is," Lestrade was saying, "the ID on this body doesn't match up with the body."

"And your team figured it out all by themselves? That's refreshing."

Lestrade groaned. "Look, it really isn't that hard when there's a beta woman with an alpha woman's license, we can put two and two together."

"Have you looked for the owner of the license?"

"Everyone has. She's been missing for a while."

"Still missing, of course. Where's the body?"

They moved to an adjoining room in a building that appeared to have been falling apart for quite some time.

“No wounds. Poison? We haven't done a tox report yet," said Lestrade.

“No, it isn’t. It's head trauma, look at her skull!”

“It doesn't look fractured."

"Doesn't have to be. She's face up, but if you look at her clothes, there are clear signs that she fell forward on the floor at some point. Ergo, the body's been moved."

"So there should be a welt forming at the back of her head?" Lestrade asked.

"Precisely." Answered Sherlock, pleased with himself. He bent down to inspect the body. "If you look here..."

But then everything was wrong, and he was reeling back away from the body, leaning back against the walls furthest from the body for support, breathing rapidly.

"Everybody freeze!" Lestrade commanded. "Is there a bomb?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Why are you jumping out of your skin, then? What's going on?"

"I don't know." He managed feebly. He shook the dust from the wall off himself and approached the body again.

And once again, he had to get away from it. This time, John was instantly at his side. He stepped between Sherlock and the corpse, moving them backwards until Sherlock felt his back hit the wall.

Lestrade was speaking, people were moving towards them, towards the corpse and that _smell_.

"Donovan, you check the body. Anderson, get them out of here."

Anderson got closer. Too close. John may have actually growled. He didn't remember exactly what happened. He did remember Anderson's startled confusion.

"Step back."

"What the hell? No, you two step out."

"I mean it. Step. Back."

"Really?" Anderson asked with derision. "This is my crime scene and you order me to step back? What do you think this even is?"

"No, no, he means it. I think we need some space." Explained Sherlock.

Per usual, Anderson refused to listen. He took a step forward and raised a hand to lead them towards the exit. John gripped Anderson's forearm and shoved him back with force. Lestrade had to stand between them.

"I don't know what the hell has gotten into you both, but it doesn't belong at this crime scene."

Sherlock heard John talking, apologising. The room was filled with death and danger and alpha, but _wrong_ alpha. His vision swam, Lestrade's voice was murky and hard to hear. He couldn't _think_. He jumped out the door and out of the room so he could breathe again. But the sudden movement had made him nauseous. He turned into the first door that looked like a bathroom (nope, storage closet) and bent over a mop bucket.

Lestrade ordered some of his team to follow Sherlock and get help, but he insisted he was fine. The details of the commotion were a blur in Sherlock's memory. John had found him in the storage closet, white knuckles clutching a shelf for support. Anderson had complained that there could have been something at the bottom of the bucket, and Sherlock had shouted at him for leaving it unchecked. Anderson insisted that wasn't the point. John and Lestrade had to pull them apart.

"Fine! If there _could_ have been something there, put on bloody gloves and dig it out!"

John took him firmly by the shoulders and turned him around.

"We need to leave, Sherlock."

"No, wait! There's something wrong with the body!" Sherlock protested.

"I think there's something wrong with _your_ body," said Lestrade, "and you shouldn't come back until it's not wrong. You aren't much help to anyone if you're going to fall apart and snap at my team."

"Let's go." Ordered John.

"There is nothing wrong with me!" Insisted Sherlock. "I need to inspect the crime scene."

"You," said Lestrade, " _need_ to go home before I ban you from crime scenes for good. And I mean it, too."

At that, he shut up and had to comply.

>*<

A sort of silence hung over them during the rest of the cab ride back. John had questions. John had many questions, but Sherlock probably wouldn't answer them. He briefly looked at Sherlock, then looked out the window and sighed.

"You should have told me you were still sick."

"I wasn't the only one who reacted to that corpse, John."

He had no response to that.

>*<

"Stop at the chemist's." Sherlock told the driver.

"What a logical idea," John muttered.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied icily.

>*<

Once inside, he dialled Molly.

"Did you get the supplements prescription written?" He asked, almost conspiratorially.

"Oh. Hi. Er, yes, I did. I think you should be able to pick them up now. Are you– how are you feeling?"

"What do you recommend for the nausea?" He asked, bobbing up and down the aisles, searching for something helpful-looking.

"Um... I think the same stuff for seasickness should work?"

"You think it works or it does work?"

"I-I- I'm not sure! There's no reason—well, I mean, it should, right? I'm sorry! I don't know about this."

"I'm aware."

"Do you mean it like 'it's okay' or like 'I can tell you don't know'? Because I'm really not an obstetrician! I'm sorry. I'm _really_ sorry. I just- "

"Ah. Here it is." He said, reaching for a purple box

"Sorry?"

"For seasickness."

_click_

>*<

Things weren’t normal. John couldn’t remember what normal had been like before this. Even things at work were slightly different. It wasn’t that John felt different, it was that everything around him was somehow _changed_. He felt slightly on edge at work. His colleagues were starting to notice. That, and he’d been a bit snappish, they said. Jumpy, even. John would just shake his head, apologise, and say he didn’t know what the matter was with him.

He’d berated a nurse the other day for standing too close to him. It was getting a bit bad. Small things like that bothered him. Smells, especially. He could catch a whiff of the undertones of his colleagues through their medical-grade scent blockers and it irritated him.

John had to excuse himself from treating an alpha patient once. As soon as he had entered the room, he felt his fingers curl into fists and his heart rate accelerate marginally.

“It doesn’t make sense, Eileen.” He told one of the physicians. “All of a sudden, I can’t stand other alphas, and I’ve never been like that.”

She exchanged a look with one of her co-workers and looked back to John.

“APSR?” Dr. Eileen asked.

“Hmm. Definitely would explain last week.” Assented the nurse.

“I’m sorry about last week, I really did _not_ mean to shout at you,” said John, “But could someone please explain?”

“Alpha Parent-”

“-Scent Response. No, I know what it is, but it can’t be that,” answered John firmly. He did answer firmly, right?

“I mean, it would make sense, given how you’ve been reacting to everything. You wouldn't have to be the actual parent, you'd just have to be living with someone pregnant.”

“But still. I don’t have a pregnant person at home." _No, it really can’t be that._

“Could be the weather.” Suggested the nurse helpfully. “My mum gets migraines when there’s low pressure outside, and the weather has been awful this week.”

“Hmm,” said John, even more unsure.

>*<

John allowed himself to think about it.

It could not be Mrs. Hudson.

It might be Sherlock, if anyone.

_No._

_No?_

_It had to be Sherlock._ The events of the previous weeks clicked into place with his coworkers' words and John felt his legs actually stop walking on the pavement.

Oh God.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, buckle your seat-belts, the ride is starting! 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. Comments and kudos greatly appreciated :)


	4. On and on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So John is unsettled.  
> Why is John unsettled?  
> People like their routines. The inclusion of a new family member will necessitate major lifestyle changes.  
> He stopped himself. Wishful thinking again. Family? They weren’t a family. He wasn’t sure John even wanted one with him.

_Why did I run, where did I go, back at the side of the road I tried to walk a long long time ago?_

* * *

 

_“Well, we should celebrate, shouldn't we?"_

_"John, wait."_

He hadn't missed the bitterness in John's voice, but it seemed John had missed the rawness of his. He lowered his voice.

_"Please."_

_"No. You haven't eaten all day.”_

_“Yes I have. I had some bread at the café.”_

_“Not dinner. Let me get take-out for us."_

_"Okay,"_ was all he could manage. Any words he spoke got stuck in his throat. Stupid emotions.

But John was already walking faster, each step taking him farther away. Sherlock followed to the doorway of the ground floor.

John turned around and put his hands up to make some distance.

 _"I need some air,"_ He said, which always meant that he needed to walk off his thoughts. 

_"Are you–?"_

_"Fine. Just got to breathe a little. I won't be back too late."_

Which always meant that he would try to come back after Sherlock had fallen asleep, possibly also go to a pub. He looked like he wanted a drink.

Sherlock looked down at him and frowned.

_"You're angry at me."_

_"I'm not. I swear I'm not. Really.”_

Which usually meant he was. From the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock watched John walk away, his stride even and controlled.

_“It’s just a walk. I’ll be back soon.”_

_“I know.”_

_“You can make it inside okay?”_

_“Of course. Go. I’m fine. I'm not suddenly delicate.”_

_“Right, sorry.”_

John knew now, and neither of them were sure what to think.

Sherlock slowly climbed the stairs, allowing the sound of each footstep to dissipate before the next began.

 _“I’ll be back soon,”_ John called.

 _“I’m fine.”_ Sherlock muttered through his teeth.

His coat slid to the floor.

He threw himself onto the sofa and closed his eyes to remember.

_John knows. And something went wrong._

>*<

_Here. It started here._

“John, I'm tired. Let's go home.”

_Post case. (A private client, haven’t spoken to Lestrade in days) John in good spirits, I exhausted._

“Alright. You want to hail us a cab?”

_I didn’t. A cab meant disgusting smells and strangers. No correlation to John’s current anger._

"Not really. I just want to sit down. My feet hurt."

"Okay, well let’s go in this café, you can sit down in there."

_John, ever accommodating._

"Hm. It will suffice. I want coffee."

“A coffee and a tea please?” John said to the waitress.

"Decaf?" Sherlock asked, briefly glancing at John, then looking away.

When she'd left John turned to face him.  

"Decaf? Since when do you take decaf?"

_That was when he noticed._

"I can take decaf if I'd like to."

"Yeah, I've just never seen you drink it."

"Today may be your lucky day.”

"Yeah, no, this isn't funny. Something's going on."

"Do enlighten me."

"You enlighten me."

"Sometimes I prefer decaffeinated beverages? I hardly think that's something of an event."

_Deflecting with sarcasm again. He always sees through this._

"No, no, that's not the only thing. You've been acting differently."

_He’s more observant than I was previously led to believe. Or have I grown incapable at the simple act of concealment?_

"Different how? While I admit the incident at the crime scene was un-"

"No. Not just that."

"Then what?"

"This 'sickness', you eating, the fact that any other smell has the both of us reacting like we we're under attack. Do you have an explanation for all of that?"

_Observation then. He has been learning._

"I...well...I have something to tell you."

"Let's hear it then.” John answered, in a tone of voice that meant _like hell you do_. “Really, I'm curious to know."

_By this point, he was certainly irritated._

"But you do know to some degree, John."

"So... Are you...?"

"Pregnant, yes."

"Yeah. Thought so."

_He knew. For how long? I didn’t know whether it was a puzzle slotted together only now or if he was waiting for a direct confession._

"You did?"

"Of course I bloody did! I— sorry, sorry. Continue."

"Continue?"

"Yeah, continue telling me why you haven't told me yet."

"Well, there were...many reasons. I, ah, I thought it would be best to wait until I was entirely sure."

_Excuses. John never accepts excuses._

"Entirely sure? Really? Were you only partly sure before?"

"I wouldn't say partly..."

"Right. Mostly, then?"

"Perhaps that isn't the right word either."

"When did you find out?"

"Approximately five and a half weeks ago."

"And how far are we along?"

"Anywhere from nine weeks to eleven."

Silence.

"John..."

"No, no, it's great." Said John, shaking his head.

"I should have told you."

"Yeah, you should've."

_He was waiting for me to tell him. Disappointment as well as anger?_

The waitress returned with their order. John gave her a strained smile, Sherlock looked away. He'd pushed John into this with the idiotic hormones and now with this child.

No, he hadn't. And he wasn't going to regret the child, he decided.

He didn’t mind children, especially the ones who were aware of their own intelligence.

He was in his late thirties and might never have another chance to have his own. And in a way, he'd always thought he would. Especially as a child, he'd swear he'd never treat his own child like his parents treated him. The idea had faded as he grew older, but the same drive to success where others failed remained.

Sentiment, he thought to himself. But he thought about the minuscule thing inside of him that was the sum of him and John and more and couldn't think of losing it.

Best apologise for the hormones, since he wasn’t going to apologise for the child. As soon as the waitress was out of earshot he turned back to face John.

"I'm sorry."

A pause.

"About..."

"Hormones. The heat. It was a biological reaction, I-"

"No, that's not your fault, don't...it's my fault, I–I'm sorry."

"Your fault? Asked Sherlock, genuinely confused.

John scrubbed his face with his hands.

"I made you go off suppressants. That was...awful of me."

"You didn't make me do anything, John." Sherlock answered quietly.

"No, but—"

"I don't do things I don't want to do." He affirmed. "I wanted...I thought you...I wanted for us to be..." He shook his head. Words, words, words, but not the right ones. Inhale. "I wanted to have that sort of connection with you, but I approached it...in a completely wrong way. Too fast."

"I...yeah. That sounds about right?"

"I'm not eloquent in those matters. I hoped the pheromones would do the communication." He paused, and then spoke again. "I'm sorry." He said, as if it were clearer now.

John looked up at him. Sherlock's mouth was a tightly shut white line and his eyelids were closed as if anticipating a blow. "So you wanted that?"

Sherlock nodded, not looking at him.

John let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I would have never forgiven myself. And now...this too?"

He nodded again.

"And not just... This is what you actually really want to do?"

"John,–"

"Okay. Good, yeah." He looked down at his mug of tea, which sat untouched and had gone cold.

>*<

John had spent the rest of the time at the café and all of the time on the cab ride back in silent thought. “Processing things”, he had called it. Sherlock had muttered something about letting him know if he came to a conclusion, but John hadn’t heard.

>*<

_Processing things. John is upset, even though he denies it._

He sighed, and realised he would have to get up to find himself something to drink to relieve his thirst. It was strange not being able to ignore his body's demands. Deep in thought, he returned from the kitchen with a glass of water.

_So John is unsettled. Why is John unsettled? People like their routines. The inclusion of a new family member will necessitate major lifestyle changes._

He stopped himself. Wishful thinking again. Family? They weren’t a family. He wasn’t sure John even wanted one with him. A small ache in the chest, ignore for now.

_The inclusion of a small household member will necessitate major lifestyle changes._

But nothing he couldn't handle, right?

His eyes scanned the flat for things that would have to change. The floor would require more frequent hoovering. The beakers, cylinders, Erlenmeyer flasks, and Bunsen burners would have to go or be moved. He looked down to the glass in his hand. Babies do not drink out of glasses. They either a), latch on directly to their parent (dear god, that thought would take getting used to!) or b), drink out of bottles. He vaguely thought of purchasing some, but they wouldn't be necessary in months and would only clutter the flat in the interim.

What other items did babies usually need? He thought of looking it up, but not at the moment. He wasn’t in any sort of mood to research, and he needed to sit down. He noticed how easily he became exhausted, and how his feet were now sore. It annoyed him. He closed his eyes and sank back down into the couch, with both hands folded over his abdomen protectively. At least he wasn't alone.

 

 


	5. In a Northern sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. It was a slow, gradual, realisation with no specific catalyst, but when it had happened, it was like a crash.

_If only I could work things out from the start. Apologies return to you. Know what matters, heart._  

* * *

  

For all intents and purposes, thought John, he should be really happy. Before, before all of this, but only slightly before Sherlock's heat and everything that happened afterwards, he had come to a realisation. Sherlock was more than a flatmate to him in a way different from and beyond a friend, something good and without a name. Not until after the heat did he come to the second realisation, and it was weeks after that when he finally admitted it to himself, but he knew now it had been true all along. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. It was a slow, gradual, realisation that had slowly and gradually become an undeniable mountain.

And now Sherlock was with child. His child. No, _theirs_. That small fact of genetics meant something. A combination of them in a tiny human being, who was now living inside of Sherlock. Wasn't that just a little bit amazing? So if there was a time to be happy, if there was a time he had always imagined but never quite like this, it would be now. Romance and family. Wasn’t that what a whole lot of people wanted?  

Except it wasn't everything.  Happiness didn’t consist of a checklist, and anyway, he couldn’t think of any of that while being so bloody confused. Sherlock was married to his work and he most certainly did not do relationships, but hadn’t he said in the café just now that he “wanted that” with him? Wanted what? Curse the man for being incredibly vague. John thought of asking, but had no idea how. He didn’t even know what they were currently, and even less what Sherlock wanted them to be. Will you be my something? May I be your something? But if Sherlock didn't want that sort of relationship and if he tried to push for it, they would be even further divided than they were now. No, he couldn’t allow that to happen. He’d miss Sherlock if Sherlock left, and the child deserved a stable home. A child. Oh hell. That would be a lot to handle. 

John pushed this all to the back of his mind and kept walking. Outside, he breathed the cold air into his lungs and exhaled it in time with each step. Down the street, his thoughts slipped free. Bloody hell, he was going to be a father. He liked the idea of being a father. He stopped at the cross-walk and he realised that was if... Oh god. He hoped Sherlock was keeping the baby. Sherlock, who couldn't stand people and, John assumed, children. But he already had decided, hadn't he? It had been two months and a half and he had kept it. He was avoiding smoking and caffeine. He had even told John. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't want to. He had even said so.

Then why had he been so pissed off? John tried to remember Sherlock's behaviour these past few months. He'd been almost jumpy, and if John was in the same room, he'd shift to the opposite corner. Sherlock would put a distance of at least two meters between them whenever possible. Avoidance. But due to what? He wasn't angry, was he? Did he resent being pregnant? It wasn't normal for him to develop a sudden John aversion. Perhaps he had only been trying to hide.

John exhaled, watching his vaporous breath diffuse into the cold air. Trying to understand Sherlock's motives for anything was a difficult game. He stepped into the pub and ordered his first drink, hoping that this once the alcohol would help him sort through it all.

>*<

John downed another splash of the amber liquid. It wasn't helping. He was prepared for a numbed sense of calm, but instead the alcohol had made him more anxious. At least he hadn't drunk much.

Soddit. Sod the pub. It was too noisy anyway.

He vaguely remembered that he wasn't supposed to be there at all, but instead had told Sherlock he would be getting takeaway.  John made a small mental reminder to himself not to order takeaway so often. That amount of sodium couldn't be good for him, or for Sherlock, or for the baby. Oh fuck, a baby.

After paying for his drink and making his way politely past some elderly pub-goers near the door, he raised his arm to hail a cab from the sidewalk. No luck. But someone on the other side of the street thought he was waving hello and waved hello back.

He squinted, trying to tell who it was. The distance between them was too great, but couldn't recognise them. Probably no one of importance, and he wasn't in the mood to rediscover old friends. He continued walking.

"John! John Watson! Hullo."

He ducked his head. He wasn't John Watson tonight.

“You all right?”

He looked up. Now he couldn't avoid eye contact, damn it, and he had to give an answer, or it would be assumed that he was _not_ all right.

“Hmm? Fine, no, I’m fine.” He answered. “And you, Greg?”

“Yeah,” said the man with a nod. “Do you need a ride home or something?”

“No, no thanks. I’m walking.”

“All the way back to Baker Street?” Asked Lestrade, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, no. Just to the Vietnamese place around the corner to get dinner," he answered, pointing further down the road,

“It’s not round the corner,” said Lestrade.

“Pardon?”

“I live 'round here. It’s not that way, it’s this way. Just headed there myself, actually.”

John sighed quietly to himself. He was exhausted from the day's revelation, and was hoping to avoid human company and sort out his thoughts. Since there was nothing else to do, he resigned himself to crossing the street and joining Lestrade on his walk to the Vietnamese place.

“So how’s Sherlock?” Asked Lestrade, trying to sound as casual as if he hadn't been waiting for the opportunity to ask. “Still sick?”

John brought a hand up to the back of his neck and looked down, a bit embarrassed. Sherlock wouldn't want him to tell the whole truth.

“He’s not sick.”

“No? Well, that’s good, isn't it? Any estimates as to when he’ll be back on his feet? Because we have a whole slew of these interesting—“

“It… er, might be a while.”

Lestrade stopped. “Didn’t you just say—? Never mind. So he’s still down with the, what was it, the stomach flu?”

John shook his head. “He doesn't have the stomach flu, Greg."

Lestrade gave him a funny look.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“Hmm?”

“Look, I know something’s up. I’m not as unobservant as he'd like to believe. I do have my job for something.”

"I know, Greg. It's just, ah, what Sherlock is working on right now... It's confidential." He hoped the DI would take that as an answer. And it was a bit true, if you thought about it.

"Government stuff for his brother? All right. You sure he doesn't have any time to review these cases?"

"Well, I mean...I'll talk to him, okay?" He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Listen, I feel really bad and I don't want to pressure him while he's recovering because God knows everyone needs a break, but there's kind of a... Well, not quite a murderer on the loose, but there's been a whole chain of suspiciously similar car accidents, and it's not like Sherlock to refuse a good murder, you know?" Greg held the door to the restaurant and they stepped inside.

They placed their orders, collected them, and parted ways cordially. John went home with a warm bag of goods on his lap and a feeling of unease in his stomach.

>*<

It was chilly when he arrived home. The flat really was home; its comfortingly familiar shapes and colours were ingrained into John's mind. And now he supposed it was family too, which was new and unfamiliar.

He stepped in from the dark cold of the street into the warm glow of their building. For a moment, John tried to let himself forget everything and just take in the pleasantness of his surroundings. No success. The feeling of unease remained.

>*<

He very nearly tripped on Sherlock's coat. The dark material blended perfectly into the carpet in the dim lighting.

His eyes rose from the tangle at his feet to the form of his flatmate, sleeping on the couch.  He hung up Sherlock's coat, then took off his own and hung it as well before stepping closer.

It didn't look too comfortable a position, and probably wasn't the healthiest for him either, thought John. He should wake him up. 

Still, it was nice to look at Sherlock asleep. His hair was partially over his eyes, his head was cocked to the side, and his chest rose and fell in the slow, even, rhythm of sleep.

No, it didn't. He couldn't be asleep.

He unpacked the food while he waited for Sherlock to acknowledge his presence.

Sherlock was being stubborn tonight, and he had things he needed to tell him. He had already prepared some words. However, John thought, Sherlock probably didn't want to be bothered, and probably didn't want to talk to him. John felt a bit guilty about having walked away like that earlier.

No, it wasn't wrong to go for some air. What else was he supposed to do with the momentous news that had been sprung upon him? Soddit, he decided, I'm going to tell him. 

"Sherlock, I know you're awake. Your eyelids keep fluttering."

This was answered with a sleepy hum.

"Come eat" said John, sitting down on his chair and handing Sherlock a box of noodles, or rather, putting them within arm’s reach of the motionless figure. No answer. John sighed.

"Listen, what I wanted to say is that I've processed enough to know this is okay. More than okay, it's great, actually. I don't know if you also wanted to, er, raise it, but if you do, that'd also be... I'd like that. I'd do that. Whatever you want to do, but together. Yeah."

John took a breath, advanced, and sat down next to him.

Oh. Sherlock really was asleep. He hadn't been exaggerating about how tired he was. Perhaps he should move him, because that sleeping position couldn't be comfortable for very long.

"Hey. Come on, I think you might want to sleep somewhere else." Said John, rubbing Sherlock's arm. Sherlock leaned drowsily into his touch, and John let him stay like that until the phone rang, and John had to get up to answer it. 

"Greg? Has something that significant happened in the past twenty minutes?"

"Yeah, about that, I know, I know, sorry to interrupt your dinner, but there’s been another break in the case. We just found another body and I thought Sherlock would want to know. And, um, isn't this his mobile?”

“I told you he was busy.”

“ ’m not busy!” Sherlock protested from the sofa, his voice still slurred from sleep.

“I know that, but we need him on this one.”

“Not this time Greg, sorry.”

“I just heard him saying he--”

“Yeah, well Sherlock isn’t feeling up to it right now."

“Right, but when he’s feeling better, tell him to give me a call, all right?”

“Bye, Greg.”

Sherlock was at his side immediately.

“Give me the phone.”

“No."

“John.”

“No, I’m not giving you th--”

Sherlock attempted to wrestle it out of his hands, but John held on for dear life. Suddenly, he felt a foot tangle around his ankle and try to trip him. He briefly lost his balance and grabbed onto Sherlock's arm to give himself leverage. Wait, no, they couldn't be doing this. As he hesitated, Sherlock succeeded in knocking him over onto the sofa. Strong fingers ripped the phone from his grasp.

"I win." Sherlock said triumphantly, waving the phone.

"Good." Said John, annoyed.

Sherlock was silent, eyes reading John's face.

“You let me win. You won’t fight me. Why? Oh, of course. The pregnancy.”

“Yes, it's obviously the pregnancy, Sherlock! We can't be wrestling, you idiot."

Sherlock gave him the most positively murderous glare.  

“I see. The 'fragile omega.'"

"No, you git, the actual trained doctor! You can't even take care of yourself, let alone a–"

He stopped. Sherlock's face looked like he had been permanently banned from crime scenes. He sprung up and left.

“Sherlock, wait--”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting. Here's another chapter for you to enjoy. Tell us what you think!


	6. Half light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The killers took his papers?" Asked Lestrade.  
> "Yes! Yes! Plain as the nose on your face. Your nose. Or mine. But not John's."  
> "Oh, say words that make sense for once." Complained Anderson. No one noticed.  
> "Alphas. They aren't alphas. But they target alphas. Must be more than one. But this is fantastic! Don't you see? This was their mistake! The car can be traced! Lestrade, be on the watch to see whether anyone starts using this man's identity."  
> "So this is identity theft, more or less." Stated John.  
> "More. Oh, much more. This is taking his name and his alpha status."

_There’s a constant that we can’t fight. It was all of this time, and if you’d read my mind, you’ll know._

* * *

"Sherlock, where are you going?" John called, following the familiar grey coattail down the stairs and out onto the darkened street.

"I have a case."

It had to be about more than a case. John had seen how he had reacted earlier, and couldn't put his finger on what he had done wrong, but knew he had said something. But, God, he'd just been hit with one of the biggest revelations of his life only hours before! What did Sherlock expect? And now he was storming off to– who even knew where?

Sherlock might be agitated, but hell, so was he!

"A case?" Asked John, with the dangerous light tone he reserved for when he was too angry to let it show. "Sorry, where exactly would that be?"

"That's precisely what you refused to tell me." Retorted Sherlock, in the tone he reserved for speaking to idiots.  

"So you've no idea where you're going. You're just going."

"Incorrect. I am calling Lestrade." Sherlock answered, pressing his mobile to his ear. John had to think fast. There was no way he could prevent this now.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

Sherlock scanned him over twice before giving him a brisk nod.

"If you must." Then he turned away and the call connected. John watched as Sherlock both retrieved the necessary information from the DI and successfully hailed them a cab.

>*<

They sat in the silence of secret questions. And while Sherlock seemed to prefer it this way, John’s conscience was not allowing him any peace. He wanted to take back whatever he’d said, to un-see that look on Sherlock’s face. Determined to remedy what he’d done,–whatever the hell it could be, since he didn't think he'd done anything wrong– he turned to the detective who had begun deducing the window.

"Sherlock, can we talk about this?"

"No."

John scrubbed his face with his hand. One of them had to be the reasonable one, and it wouldn’t be Sherlock, would it? He sighed in resignation and tried again.

"Okay, can I talk and you listen?"

"I suppose it is inevitable that I'll hear."

"Right. Look, Sherlock, that was wrong of me to answer for you on the phone. Cases are what you do. Just- I was worried, I am worried, okay? How could I possibly not be worried? I don't want you or the baby hurt."

"I see," began Sherlock, turning to face him.

"Okay. We're good now?"

"I didn’t finish. I see you think of me as a breeder now. You've never tried to stop me going on cases before."

John shook his head firmly, trying not to show how shocked he was by the comment. "No! What would make you—? No. That's very much not what I think of you. I've always tried to convince you to take care of yourself. It's not because of...this. Why would you suddenly become just a breeder to me? Do real people even think that way anymore?"

“Some do,” Sherlock muttered, turning away.

“You know I don’t."

“Do I know that, John?”

John pressed his lips thinly together, puzzled and concerned.

"Hey. Come on. What's this about? I've never done anything to make you think I see you like that."

Sherlock sighed loudly.

"No, you haven't. I suppose you're right."

But something still wasn't right. Sherlock almost never admitted John was right.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock wasn't paying attention. He was looking out the window.

So no, not okay.

It didn't take detective skills to tell that someone had once treated Sherlock as less of a person, and it still affected him.

"Who was it?" John asked carefully.

"Who do you think?"

A pause. The driver had stopped the cab and was waiting. It didn't matter. John had to know and it was important.

"Parents?" He ventured.

Sherlock nodded.

"When I presented they asked me if I wanted to go to university. Me, John! Of course I wanted to go to university!"

Angered by the memory, he flung open the door of the cab and left before John had any chance to respond.

>*<

It was an automobile accident. But then it never was, was it? The team had determined that the body had been dead before the car crashed itself into a light pole.

No accident at all. Both body and car had been placed and positioned. Steps forward led him towards the windshield. A glance inside the automobile told him what he needed to know.

"The body's been–"

"Yeah. Was already dead. No papers on him. We knew that, Sherlock." Answered Lestrade. "What we don't know is why."

In seconds, Sherlock was in his element. John could almost hear the gears shift.

“Remove him. Hurry, do as I say. Might be connected to the kidney thief in Cardiff.”

Two members of the police force pulled the dead man out and laid him on the asphalt. Sherlock sat on his knees next to the corpse _– careful, don’t bend over–_ and lifted the bottom of its shirt, then blanched.

“Was he cut open?” asked Lestrade.

“No, no, it’s not that,” he muttered.

He was shaking, and his shoulders had hunched over in a position of deference that John knew Sherlock never used.

“You all right?” asked Lestrade, speaking John’s mind.

“Fine. Fine! Need to focus. John, don’t get any closer.”

Lestrade shot John a questioning look as Sherlock continued to examine the body.

“Aha! His scent glands are missing.” Concluded Sherlock, rising to his feet.

“Missing? Couldn’t he just be a beta?”

“No, alpha.”

“What, did you check his pants while no one was looking?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. He’s obviously an alpha.”

“Told you!” Anderson interjected. Sherlock rolled his eyes, realising that he was there.

“You sure?”

“Use your noses!” cried Anderson and Sherlock at once. They looked at each other as if the other had sprouted green tentacles.

“Wait.” Anderson began. “Are you– I mean, I thought– I didn’t know you could smell–”

Sherlock didn’t let him finish.

“Incision at the right side of the neck. Rather imprecisely done, suggesting haste or poor training, but made by a sharp scalpel, possibly newly purchased. Open the incision, you’ll see a hollow cavity that should be occupied by–”

“You’re an omega too.”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock glared at him.

“You heard him.” Added Lestrade. “This investigation continues.”

And it did.

Every possible scrap of information was extracted. There he was, either circling the vehicle, or busily typing away on a police laptop, pulling up CCTV footage and car registries. Every now and then he’d make an announcement. 

“In his own vehicle. Someone who had the keys put him in it. Could be someone known, though the possibility of an assailant taking the keys shouldn’t be ruled out.”

“No damn footage. There aren’t enough cameras here. Stupid residential neighborhood.”

Sherlock paced and thought aloud.

“The body from a couple weeks ago, do you remember it, Lestrade? Dead beta woman, you threw us out. She smelled like alpha, not synthetic, probably harvested somewhere. Could be a connection. Not this man, obviously. Then, –what, two, three?– months ago there was that half-decomposed one, awfully butchered, but seemingly not missing anything– was it missing something?”

“Okay. I can kind of see what you’re getting at.”

“Do a search in your records for recent dead or missing alphas.” Sherlock commanded. It was difficult to forget he was not in charge, with the way he took up space. The effect was ruined when he winced and pressed a hand to his back.

"I need to sit down two minutes."

"Yeah, sure thing. Listen, you've already done lots, I think we can take it from here."

Sherlock smirked, and covered it with a yawn.

"What?" Asked Lestrade.

"You said something funny. The thought that your team could finish this."

"Yeah, I'm sending you home, and not just because you're sick."

"Oh, for God’s sake, not you too. How many times do I need to tell everyone that I’m not sick?"

"I saw you pale and shivering when you were next to the corpse. Come on, John," said Lestrade, "help me with this one."

Sherlock shot him a pleading look.

"Let's stay a little longer." Said John, against his better instincts.

>*<

“Why didn’t we see it?” After some time Sherlock had gotten back on his feet, needing a closer look at this or that. “Well, of course you wouldn’t have, but I should’ve. It’s almost too simple, really. John, do you realise now?”

John only smiled, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

“No, you don’t. No matter.” Sherlock was pacing yet again, back and forth in front of the corpse. “Alpha, yes. But the scent glands gone. Why? To make the body more difficult to identify? No, too obvious.” Lestrade began to question, Sherlock cut him off with a sigh and further explanations. “They wouldn’t have gone to the trouble only to leave such a glaring incision. They wanted the scent gland for a purpose, but they killed their victim. Visible faces then, at least this time. The victim would have been able to recognise them, and they couldn’t risk that.”  

Watching him, seeing him at work made John realise that absolutely nothing could stop Sherlock Holmes when he was determined. Hell, nothing ever. And he, John Watson, had told Sherlock he couldn't do something because of pregnancy. Pregnancy that he had caused. And maybe the dashing about wouldn't be best in future months, but he'd been wrong to make such a judgement this early on. Call it an alpha reaction or maybe just his own over reaction, but it was--

"John, what do you make of this?" Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts.

He quickly moved over to where Sherlock was kneeling.

"That's where the vomeronasal organ is. Why would they take that?" asked John.

"Yes! Exactly! Why would they take it? Unless...No, no, think, think." He pressed his hands against his head. "Oh! Oh! That's it. Thorough, I must say. The extent of the effort is admirable."

Lestrade turned to John, as if to ask him to translate.

"No papers on him, John. Only identified by looking up car registry. Don't you see? His papers were taken. Stolen! By them."

"The killers took his papers?" Asked Lestrade.

"Yes! Yes! Plain as the nose on your face. Your nose. Or mine. But not John's."

"Oh, say words that make sense for once." Complained Anderson. No one noticed.

"Alphas. They aren't alphas. But they target alphas. Must be more than one. But this is fantastic! Don't you see? This was their mistake! The car can be traced! Lestrade, be on the watch to see whether anyone starts using this man's identity."

"So this is identity theft, more or less." Stated John.

"More. Oh, much more. This is taking his name and his alpha status." Sherlock walked over to the car again. "Unbonded. Look at the state of the car. And lonely. Easy target. Not many will miss him, I'm afraid. Too bad."

Sherlock accidentally inhaled too deeply and gave a shudder of distaste at the alpha's scent. He stepped away from the scene, closer to John. Very close actually. John could feel the hair at the back of his head moving as Sherlock breathed in the air near John. He felt something in his chest move as well.

"So who do you think is doing this?" he asked Sherlock, breaking the moment.

"Hm? It's several people, like I said, has to be. Head trauma, probably attacked him from behind. At least one of them has some background in anatomy, but probably not a formal medical license. Look at the cuts. They're more focused on where than how."

John grinned.  "That's good."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"That they're not professionals?"

"No, your observations."

Sherlock blinked.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose they are..." This was the part where he wanted to say thanks but didn't know how.

"Hey." Interjected Lestrade. "Any hope in finding them?"

"Fingerprints. They must have left some on the body when they moved it.  Or hair or scent or something." Sherlock involuntarily yawned, and immediately looked irritated at himself.

"So the rest is basically forensics." Said Lestrade.

Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth in a yawn again. It wasn't like him to leave the forensics to the yard's team, but he was so _tired_. It was inconvenient. Why was he tired? Oh. That would be a natural consequence of... Yes, that. He grudgingly gave into his body's nagging.

"Sorry Lestrade,” Sherlock stifled a yawn. “We really must be going. John is probably tired and has to go to,” he was interrupted by another yawn, “the clinic or the surgery or wherever it is he works tomorrow.”

He actually yawned and stretched rather like a cat, and briefly rested a hand on John’s shoulder before noticing and withdrawing it.

"All right, no problem, thanks." Said Lestrade, suppressing a smirk. _Work tomorrow? No, Sherlock Holmes would never admit that he himself was tired._

“And sorry to call you this late!” He called after them as they left. He saw John turn around and wave goodbye back, and then chuckle at something Sherlock had said.

“He says: ‘At this point it’s early.’” John called back, reassuring Lestrade that it had not been a cruel remark of any sort.

Lestrade grinned and shook his head. Even when tired, Sherlock managed to come up with something sarcastic to say.

"You do realise it's Saturday today?” Asked John as they walked away from the crash site.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it.

“Conceded. Would you rather stay and keep looking at dead bodies?”

John laughed and shook his head.

“Then we’re going home.”

The air was dark and cool above them, in contrast to the warm glow of the streetlights. There was no traffic on this street, so they walked together to find a busier road that might contain cabs.

In the end, they had to call a cab to take them, because near no one was out at nearly two in the morning.

They waited on the sidewalk, still thrumming with energy from the case, though a bit sedated by want of sleep. As usual, Sherlock had pieced the details together brilliantly to create a sketch of the most probable solution. Sherlock loved doing it, and John loved watching him do it. They didn't talk– there was no need to. Everything made sense after a solved case, or at least partially after a partial one. The most important thing was that he’d gotten to see Sherlock be more himself than he’d been in months, finally fully engaged in something and comfortable.

But there was something new as well. Now, with his guard down, it showed in the warm but hesitant way he looked at John.

John didn’t know if he should return the gaze. Instead, he made a note of the buds of green that were beginning to form on the branches of a nearby plane tree. Everything around him looked like spring and new beginnings, but it was still cold, too cold for late April. He noticed Sherlock’s hands stuffed in his pockets. Part of him wanted to reach out and warm his hands with his own, but he wondered whether the gesture would be well-received.

The cab pulled up to the sidewalk and took them in, but John’s distant train of thought continued uninterrupted. Sherlock never struck him as the physically affectionate type. Heck, maybe not even affectionate at all. Whether by nature or effort, the man prided himself on the way he lived as a strict rational and kept emotions under the surface. John’s mind wandered back to one question that had been nagging him. Sherlock had wanted to spend his heat with him (his face flushed a little at the memory) and he had said only a few hours earlier in the café (God, it felt like days ago) that he had wanted to have that sort of connection with John. But why? And had he changed his mind?

John felt something bump his shoulder, and sincerely hoped that Sherlock hadn't been reading his mind or deducing his face or what have you. But no, Sherlock was actually nodding off to sleep.

Eyes closed, Sherlock muttered an apology he couldn't have meant before resting his head on the comfortable and convenient pillow that was John. His presence made Sherlock feel calm. It had before, but now even more.

The quiet hum of the engine and the even rise and fall of John’s chest soon lulled him to deeper sleep, which he drifted in and out of. Briefly, he thought he felt John’s lips press against his hair, and gave a contented hum before drifting off again.

John had never seen Sherlock fall asleep so quickly. By the time they were at Baker Street, he was out cold.

“Sherlock, wake up, we’re back.”

He grumbled. Why was it that whenever he took the time to fall asleep he was always so rudely awoken?

When he heard John’s amused response, he realised must have mumbled some of his thoughts aloud.

“No, I am not carrying you into the flat.”

>*<

Weeks passed and things grew closer to normal, if such a thing existed. They had fallen into a new rhythm that worked. Sherlock no longer woke up early in an attempt to hide the nausea from John, and John would often awake to Sherlock's commands to bring him the Dramamine. He felt a slight pang of remorse every time. If it weren't for him, Sherlock wouldn't need the Dramamine. But Sherlock would read his thoughts and tell him not to be ridiculous, and that was nearly reassuring enough.

John would get closer and Sherlock would draw away, slightly and reluctantly. It was almost as if the man felt guilty. John wanted to reassure him, and make him not feel guilty. He used small gestures. A mug of herbal tea, a snack, a small favour. But then, these were things he already did.

It was a brush of the hands, then, standing slightly closer. And Sherlock relaxed. Gradually, he allowed John into his space, but it remained unspoken between them.

>*<

One day, John was sitting on the couch when he heard something in Sherlock's room.

Sherlock muttered something to himself that sounded like a curse.

"You all right in there?" Called John, who had sprung up and was now by the door.

"Yes." Said Sherlock. After a pause, he added. "No."

"Should I come in?" Asked John.

"No, I ... I'm not wearing a shirt." Sherlock replied hesitantly from inside his room. There was absolutely no way he was opening the door to John like this. Not that he’d ever been modest. He'd even walked around in a sheet. But his chest looked wrong, and felt odd, and he didn’t want to be seen, by John or anyone.

"Okay, so put one on and I'll help you."

"Ah. You see, that's the problem."

"You can't find a shirt?"

"I can. I've got plenty. I just can't wear them."

"Are you going on some sort of shirt-strike?"

"Funny. No, John, they are too tight."

"Most of them were to begin with."

"Helpful."

"Wait right there." Said John, deciding to be actually helpful.

"As established, I'm not going anywhere."

It didn't sound like he was annoyed. It sounded like he was saying it to have something to say. Instead of puzzling over the possible meanings of Sherlock's tone, John put himself to use and returned with six of his shirts right away

"Do you think you'll fit into one of mine?"

"Though your torso is slightly wider, your arms are shorter than mine."

"So d'you think you could roll the sleeves up?"

John could hear him hesitate for a minute and then intake breath.

"Just come in and get it over with." Sherlock said.

John came in and saw what the fuss was about. Sherlock's pectorals were slightly fuller, as if they'd–no, they certainly had– gained fat, and his nipples were larger and darker than they'd been before. Completely normal, from a doctor’s view, but it had to be different from inside. He stood facing him, hands loose by his sides, not making an effort to hide his chest, as if daring John to say something. Anyone who didn't know him would have thought him unabashed. But John knew better.

"Well?" Asked Sherlock impatiently.

"Here's your shirts."

Sherlock nodded. "You don't have to watch me put them on."

John would have turned around to give the man his due privacy, but couldn’t. It was something about seeing what he was forbidden to see, the expanses of pale skin that he’d banished from his mind before he could really think about them. Sherlock’s skin wasn’t flawless like a cold, white, marble figure’s. There were light freckles and faded scars and little spots that somehow made him even more perfect. Despite the doubtful expression on his face, he looked-

“Beautiful.” John blurted out. Sherlock raised both eyebrows. Oh God, no. But he'd said it, and Sherlock certainly didn’t hear it often.

John took a breath. "You, er, you are. Yeah. Always have been."

Sherlock just kept looking at him.

“Shit, sorry.” John ventured.

“No,” said Sherlock, “it’s fine.”

>*<

The shirts were not a success. Or they were, but Sherlock kept finding excuses to take them off. It was something about having John’s shirts around him, snugly-close and _John_ and perfect that made him want to keep them forever, and that sort of saccharine-perfection only reminded him of how little he could have it. Or it had something to do with fingers grazing over skin, gently as if not there, but worth cataloguing and memorising. There was really no need for John to help him dress. He was an adult. But he couldn’t muster the will to be bothered by it. Quite the opposite. Hmm.

"I do have a jumper that'd fit you." John announced, after his shirt reserves had been exhausted.

"Is it the baggy hideous one?"

"No. It is the baggy one but it's not hideous."

"That one? John, it's appalling."

"Try it."

Sherlock gave him one of those dramatic are-you-serious looks. John smirked.

He did not, in the end, settle for the jumper. Too warm for April, especially while pregnant.

Instead, John was sent shopping for maternity clothes.

He received specific instructions on what he could pick out and what he had to avoid at all costs. After all, the body may be transport, but one must travel in style.

Here he was, shopping for maternity clothes for Sherlock Holmes. There should have been something strange about it, but he realised there wasn't, and that was fine by him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, and thank you for waiting. A friend of ours is having a baby (the perfect excuse, yes? that's because we just made it up). In all actuality, we both had things to work on and characters to figure out. Blame the boys, really. We had to get them right. Anyway, please please share your reviews or thoughts. Literally, reading your comments is Macdicilla's favourite part of writing fics.


	7. Under my arrest (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He paused, hand on the door-handle. The image of Sherlock rattling off serious deductions in a frilly orange shirt was back. Oh God. He tried to muffle his laughter this time, hoping Sherlock couldn't hear him through the walls. John steadied himself with a hand on the doorframe and tried to think about something serious. The entire situation was absolutely ridiculous, and he was almost positive that Sherlock was going to use the shirts he'd just bought an experiment rather than wear them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: The fic appears as updated, but we've only combed through it and fixed some awkward sentences. There isn't any new content as of yet.

_Opposites pull hard. Put away your doubts and fears._

* * *

 

John stepped around two omegas ( _one bonded one not,_ he thought to himself as he inhaled), and headed towards yet another rack of clothing. The air of the shop was cloying with perfumes meant to put pregnant omegas at ease. He'd almost had to hold his breath when he'd first entered. Really, the entire shop was made for omegas. The walls were painted in soothing shades of mint, lavender, and robin's egg blue. It was almost better Sherlock didn't join him on this excursion; he would have abhorred it. Thinking of what Sherlock would say made him smile. He'd say the most scathing things, even more scathing, thought John as he moved aside a hot pink _thing_ , than some of the insults he reserved for clumsy forensic officers.

He'd been browsing for at least a half an hour with absolutely no luck. Every item of clothing he held up had him imagining disgusted commentary from Sherlock. The next shirt he pulled was bright orange with alternating floral ruffles down the front. It looked like Mrs Hudson's kitchen curtains.

“If I buy this for him I’ll be the next severed head in fridge.”

"Pardon?" Asked a shop assistant. "Is there anything with which I can help you?"

John didn't want to feel rude, so he decided he might as well let the shop assistant help him. He was a middle-aged beta who seemed to be made of bones and tight-fitting purple yoga wear.

"Er, yes, actually. I'm looking for..." He thought of a polite way to say normal-looking. "I'm looking for a certain style of clothing. My, er, person I'm shopping for usually wears dress shirts."

"I'm sure we can find something nice for her," said the shop assistant.

"Him, actually," said John.

"Which explains why you couldn't find anything in the ladies section," he answered cheekily. "This way to the gents' aisle."

The improvement was marked, but not by much. John caught sight of a white shirt with actual pleats down the front.

"Still can't find anything?" Asked the shop assistant. John had forgotten he was there.

"No."

At least an hour and fourteen shirts later, John could take the over-cheeriness of the place and the employees no more. Well, at least the shirts he'd chosen were the "best out of all the possible options", as more than one shop assistant had assured him. If Sherlock had been here, he would have told them off for lying to a customer to sell their products, he thought wryly. He looked into his bags again. _They should be fine,_ he told himself. They mostly looked like normal button-up shirts. But Sherlock would always find something wrong, wouldn't he? While fourteen shirts seemed excessive, they had a surprisingly reasonable return policy, and the more options Sherlock had to choose from the less likely he was to refuse them all.

>*<

Outside, John waved his arm to hail a cab, but his chronic inability to get any driver's attention meant that none of them stopped. He sighed and resigned himself to taking the tube. As he held onto the railings, his mind was somewhere else. He was remembering the ghastly orange top from the store. He'd seen an omega man walk out of the changing rooms wearing something similar. Suddenly, John had a vivid mental image of Sherlock swanning about a crime scene wearing something garish and orange.

God, no, at St. Bart's. Ha!

One of the other passengers turned to look at him. Oh. He'd actually laughed out loud. Not good. John cleared his throat and looked out the window, hoping nobody thought he was insane. Thankfully, his stop was next, and he was able to avoid any more askance glances.

>*<

He paused, hand on the door-handle. The image of Sherlock rattling off serious deductions in a frilly orange shirt was back. Oh God. He tried to muffle his laughter this time, hoping Sherlock couldn't hear him through the walls. John steadied himself with a hand on the doorframe and tried to think about something serious. The entire situation was absolutely ridiculous, and he was almost positive that Sherlock was going to use the shirts he'd just bought an experiment rather than wear them. It would be the likes of how quickly polyester burns in different acidic compounds in comparison to cotton, or the various ways to strangle someone with a shirt. Specifically, how to strange _him_ with the shirts he'd picked out. John shook his head clear and stepped in to find a pyjama-clad Sherlock stretched on the sofa with John's laptop. And really, this time he had been sure the password was not deducible. Apparently not. Sherlock had substituted a pyjama top with a worn white t-shirt, and John's gaze caught momentarily on the barely noticeable curve of Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock shut the laptop and turned his head around.

"Ah. John."

John met his gaze. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but made no comment on where John had been looking. Instead, he stood and eyed the bags of clothing John held.

"Oh good," he said. "Let me see what you found."

"Before you say anything, just give them a chance, all right? They didn't have much in the way of--" But Sherlock had already reached between the tissue paper and pulled one of the items. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, twisting his face into a shape so absurd that John had to look away so as not to laugh.

"It's hideous." He insisted. "I don't know anyone who would wear a shirt like that. Look at the fabric bunched up in the front."

 _At least it doesn't have floral ruffles,_ John thought.

"It's a maternity shirt. It's supposed to have that."

With one hand, Sherlock suspended the hanger in the air, and with the other, pushed the fabric forward from the inside, all while giving the garment a look of supreme distaste.

"This is far larger than necessary. I'm not eleven months pregnant, John. It doesn't even go to eleven."

John let out a stream of half-suppressed snickering.

"What?" Asked Sherlock, looking utterly serious and confused. "What's funny?"

"Everything," said John.  

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Look," began John, "it's not going to look like that when you're wearing it."

"I'm not _going_ to wear it, as I have already stated."

"Then how are you going to see what it looks like when it's on someone?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled up mischievously. It was one of those honest, unguarded smiles that John so loved. He could almost tell what the madman was going to say.

"You put it on, John."

And how could John refuse when he would do anything just to see him smile like that?

"Fine." He said, and slipped on the shirt over the one he was already wearing, adjusting the buttons at the top.

"Oh, John!" Came Mrs. Hudson's voice from the doorway. "You look lovely."

"He does, doesn't he?" Remarked Sherlock, beaming with what looked like pride to Mrs. Hudson, but looked like amusement to John.

John's ears pinked.

"Oh, boys." She cooed. "Congratulations."

"Er, thank you." Managed John.

"I knew it!" She continued, entering the flat and putting the tray of biscuits she was carrying on the table. "I just knew it had to be true. I heard you upstairs with the heat, but didn't say anything because it wasn't my place. I'm _so_ happy for the both of you dears. Oh, you should have told me, boys, I would've begun the knitting!"

She fussed over them some more, and asked, "How many weeks are you along?"

John noticed she was looking at him, which struck him as odd.

"Thirteen and a half," said Sherlock simply.

"You must be so proud, Sherlock. And you, John! Oh, you look absolutely radiant."

Okay, that was definitely weird.

She stepped closer to embrace them both. Sherlock first, awkwardly, and then John, who was a better height for hugging. She placed a hand on John's belly as she did so. Sherlock met his eye and burst into silent laughter.

"I never knew you were an omega, John. All this time thinking you were a beta! You must forgive me, my nose isn't what it used to be. If you ever need to talk to another omega or need any advice, dear, I'm right downstairs."

John began to nod thank you, then shook his head.

"Erm, look, Sherlock's an omega." He began.

"Oh!" Said Mrs. Hudson with some surprise. "Well it's nothing to be ashamed of, using a donor. I did tell you Mrs. Turner has married ones."

Sherlock's hand was over his mouth and his face was now pink from laughter. John nodded slowly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He said, while looking at Sherlock, nonverbally telling him he was a git.

"Really, it's fine. And do remember I'm always right here," she said before returning downstairs.

Sherlock had since regained his composure. He now looked thoughtful.

"Tell me, John. What does it say about your figure that she thought _you_ were pregnant?"

"Shut it, you." He said jokingly. "It's the stupid shirt."

"Yes, I do recall telling you the shirt was stupid," replied Sherlock with a grin.

"Are we going to tell her?"

"What for? Don't you want extra free food and ginger tea?"

“Am I the one who needs extra free food?” Asked John with a smirk. “Apparently, I’m the one who looks pregnant.”

>*<

It felt like running through water in a pool, but something kept insisting that he had to run home, because there was something he had lost or forgotten, and it was important. Yet there was also a sense of dread as Sherlock opened the door of 221b. In the dream, someone was in the sitting room. He couldn't recognise the person, but there was something uncannily familiar. Sharp suit. Three pieces. Mycroft's face came into focus. Ah.

He turned over in his sleep and groaned aloud.

Sherlock looked down and saw that he was wearing his dressing gown, which made no sense, since he had just come through the front door. But that didn't register. All that registered was the expression of contempt on Mycroft's face. 

"Sherlock." He drawled. "Where is the baby?"

Sherlock scoffed. "That's a stupid question. Where would it possibly be?"

Mycroft just arched an eyebrow. In horror, Sherlock pressed a hand to his belly and felt a gaping, sticky hole where the slight bump usually was. 

Sherlock awoke, sweating, tangled in blankets and sheets. He kicked off the too-hot covers and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, the palm of his hand resting on his lower belly.

"It's the temperature." He said aloud, to no one in particular. "That's all it is. Overheating disrupts sleep. There are several studies on the subject. Furthermore, dreams are no reason to be afraid. The idea that they have any bearing on the future is a laughable notion from centuries ago. And you're still here…"

Sherlock stopped. He was speaking to it. He was actually speaking to it. 

So what if he was? He wanted to. There was nothing wrong with speaking to it. 

It was a ridiculous idea, but he needed something to call it. A name, of sorts. One without an obvious gender, and without name-like qualities. He didn't want to confuse it with the baby's birth name. "Little one" was too cliché. It reminded him of lambs and duckies and other frankly bland animals. No child of his would be bland. Furthermore, "little one" sounded too imprecise, it wasn't a standard measurement, Sherlock thought. No, he needed something substantive. He couldn't very well call it 11cm, but if there was something that would compare to its size... He remembered a sort of chart he'd filed away in his mind during his researches. A week-by-week comparison calendar of fruits and common items that approximated the developing fetus in size.

"Walnut with shell and fruit." Sherlock said aloud. "No, too much of a mouthful. Walnut."

And if it sounded sentimental, he didn't care, because there was no one to hear it:

"You're safe."

>*<

In the morning, Sherlock eyed the bags of clothing he’d brought into his room the night before. He lifted and tossed away each of the shirts. They were all hateful. It seemed that John had picked them out based on abdomen space. That wasn't even the current area of concern. What he wanted was something with a bit of chest space. He looked through the shirts again. There was but one he could barely stand. It was similar enough to the button-downs he usually wore, and the new item would be less noticeable than any of the others. Hm. Fine. It wasn't like he had anything else to wear. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and buttoned the middle.

Thankfully, it fit well enough. He turned sideways in front of the mirror and groaned. The fabric on the sides was all bunched up in some sort of attempt to make the unflattering look flattering. He reached for a familiar suit-jacket, hoping it would cover the ruching. He tugged the sides of it together and found that it looked awful and too small when it was buttoned. Sherlock sighed. He could wear it open. What was the point, anyway? It was ridiculous to pretend he could hide indefinitely.

Hiding it. Was that what he was doing? 

Of course not. Most of everyone who mattered knew. Molly, Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade didn't yet, but he was ostensibly a detective, so he'd figure it out himself. Then again, Lestrade was oblivious to most of the obvious. Either way, by the end of his term even Lestrade couldn’t miss it.

>*<

It was a slow, boring afternoon to a slow, boring day that had trickled by like molasses, or an even more viscous fluid. Toothpaste, thought Sherlock to himself, toothpaste was a slow-moving fluid. Non-Newtonian, if he recalled correctly. Not that it mattered, he added with a yawn, opening the fridge. The problem with toothpaste was that the taste had inexplicably become unbearable as of late. John was at work, and Sherlock had spent most of the morning sleeping. There had been a temporary dead end in the case, anyway, and these days he was _so_ easily tired. Even when he was doing nothing, he was tired.

He rifled around in the fridge for something to eat. It smelled off. Sure, it was better without the bits of dead people, but something still nauseated him enough that he had to turn his face aside and take deep breaths before returning to the fridge. It was the curry, he realized with annoyance, and it hadn’t even gone bad. How could it be that just days ago, he was desperate for curry and now it caused him utter revulsion.

He left it there, in case he wanted it later. What he needed–yes, _needed_ –right now was spinach. What? Yes, with pickles, and liver. Damn. This was getting ridiculous. He didn’t even _like_ liver, and it didn’t make sense to him that he’d be craving it. There had to be a reason.

His mobile rang. He ignored it. Why _liver_? Why anything at all? Braving the smell of the Indian food, he settled for a glass of orange juice and one lone pickle sandwiched between bread slices. When the mobile had stopped ringing, he went over to it to check the voicemail. It was always more efficient to let people ring and leave a message. No need to waste excess time on pleasantries. He pressed the phone to his ear. The message was from Molly.

"Hi! I just wanted to call and, er, see how you're doing. It's been a while since we last talked and I just wanted to know how how things are with you and the baby. I also have a fresh cadaver that we think might have chimerism, and I thought that would maybe cheer you up? Um, yeah. So give me a call when you get this message. Okay! Bye!"

He didn’t even bother to call back. He was at Bart's within minutes.

“You wanted to talk to me.” He stated in place of a greeting.

Molly jumped, and nearly spilled some of the water in the pipette she was holding. She spun around and took off her goggles.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly. “I think it might give me a heart attack if you sneak up on me like that again.”

“Of course not,” answered Sherlock. “You’re young, not unhealthy, and your family has no history of heart disease.”

“Well,” she tittered, “you know what I meant. Did you want to see the cadaver before I pass it on to the med students?”

Sherlock gave a quick nod and followed Molly to the body room.

“He’s roughly about eighty,” she was saying more confidently, as they examined the cadaver “died of natural causes. What’s really interesting is the pattern of coloration on him. You can actually see some parts where his hair and skin aren’t the same as others. When we took genetic samples, we found–”

She turned around to see Sherlock bent over, eyes scrunched shut, covering his mouth with a clenched fist.

“Goodness! Are you going to be sick?”

“I’m fine.” He answered shakily, before emptying his stomach into the nearest bin. “Damn!”

Molly was immediately by his side, rubbing his back.

“Do you need anything?” She asked.

“Water.” Sherlock answered curtly. “And stop coddling me.”

Molly withdrew her hand from his back with electric speed.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Just water.”

She nodded.

“Please.” He added, which was not usual for him. But then again, neither was being sick in the presence of a corpse.

He groaned in frustration.

After Molly had returned with the water, and they left the body room, Sherlock managed to regain his composure.

"Wow." Said Molly, still fretting. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea that would happen."

"It's fine. Stop worrying. You have better things to do."

"But...if it were anyone else, it wouldn't be a problem if they couldn't stand dead bodies, but your job–"

Sherlock's face softened fractionally at her understanding.

"I appreciate your concern. The situation, however, may be temporary. Last week it was lemon hand soap that set me off, God knows why."

She managed a tentative smile.

"And in any case, you were only using the body as a pretense to speak to me. No, don't apologise, don't be repetitive. Something important, if it had to be in person."

"Right. Yes. Listen, Sherlock, I really can't be your doctor for this."

He furrowed his brow.

"I don't see why not. You're competent."

That was a high compliment, coming from him, but she didn't let it distract her.

"No," she said firmly, "I'm competent in the wrong field. I do post-mortems. I'm a forensic pathologist. I don't have the right experience for obstetrics. I only know what I learned in med school and what I heard from my mother and my aunts."

"And you're an only child too." Sherlock observed dejectedly.

She nodded.

"And you're almost at twelve weeks, right?" Asked Molly. "I could borrow the equipment for an ultrasound and the other tests, but I wouldn't know what to look for."

She looked at his face. It was blank.

"Sherlock? Please tell me you know there's an important check-up at twelve weeks."

"Of course I know. It's on nearly every website." He answered, as if insulted by the idea that he wouldn't know something.

"Okay." Molly answered slowly. "And how many weeks are you?"

"...Almost fourteen."

She sighed.

"You need to get that done as soon as you can, do you hear me? It's really, really important. They screen for things that could go wrong so they can catch them early."

"There isn't anything wrong with my child." Sherlock said defensively.

"You can't come to a conclusion without evidence." She reminded him.

He resented the fact that she was correct. He needed to leave, go to John’s work, and schedule an appointment. He remembered the dream and felt a sudden chill. _What if–? What if–?_ He had to go now. Everything could go wrong. He had to know. "Well, seeing as you're not a trained obstetrician, there's no point in me wasting any of-"

"You're really not wasting my time, Sherlock."

"Any of _my_ time." With that, Sherlock turned and walked away. "Afternoon, Molly."

_What if–? What if–?_

Outside of Bart's, Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the address, his voice cool and calm, betraying nothing. 

****  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our sincerest apologies on the delay of this chapter, we do hope it was worth the wait. Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated. :)


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